No Traveler Returns
by JennK528
Summary: The boys hunt a ghost in Charleston. And Dean's in trouble....
1. Chapter 1

"No Traveler Returns"

A/N: Spoilers for "Faith" because, ye gods, I can't get that one out of my mind. This story is set between that episode and "Route 666."

Warnings: Violence. Bad language from the boys. Dean hurt and angst ahead. (Because I like it.)

Special thanks to Sodakey for her kindness and generosity. Any similar plotlines to her story "In Reverse" are purely unintentional and strictly coincidental. Great minds think alike. (We agreed on that!)

Also a big thank you and hug to my beta, who doesn't even watch the show (okay, I managed to talk her into catching one episode – "Faith," thank goodness! – but she at least agreed that Dean has lovely lips). Thanks, Moe!

xxxxx

_But that the dread of something after death,  
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn  
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,  
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,  
Than fly to others that we know not of . . ._

William Shakespeare  
"Hamlet" Act III, scene I

Chapter One

She awoke, and knew she had come home. She did not know where she had been before – it was all as if a dream, but she was back home again, and here she would stay, in this sweet and comforting familiarity. But for his absence, like an ever-present ache in her heart, she could be perfectly happy here. Though, of course, she knew he would return for her; he had promised, and he always kept his promises. But she had waited so long already . . . . A grim darkness hovered at the edges of her memory, but she resolutely pushed it away. No. She would not doubt him. He would come. This time he would come, and she would be here. No matter what.

Time held no meaning for her; she did not know how long she had been away, or even how long she had been back. She simply accepted what was now her reality. And despite knowing intuitively where she was, at first she did not recognize her surroundings. But as she passed silently from room to room, her memory saw the house the way it had been before; certain objects seemed to glow in her mind's eye, and she drew towards them and knew them for her own. She gently touched a silver tea service, then her mother's rocking chair, giving it a nudge to hear its familiar creak. An old lullaby came to her, and she hummed softly to herself as she walked. She was vaguely aware that she felt neither heat nor cold, thirst nor hunger, but had little concern for such minor cares as her sense of peace grew the longer she roamed through the house.

She drifted through the mansion. Sunlight gleamed on the polished wooden floors, and she smiled as she thought of her garden and the variety of the many flowers and lushness of the greenery. It would need tending, for who would have taken care of it in her absence? The whole house would need cleaning and a fresh airing out. The contented smile faded, to be replaced by a puzzled frown. Where was everyone? She had seen none of her family since her return, but she thought she had felt . . . something . . . in her house as she had ceaselessly wandered. But what about Old Jacob, and Abigail, Penny, Isaac . . . .

Even as she began to turn that troubling thought over in her mind, a new and unwelcome noise invaded her awareness. Voices floated up from downstairs. Unfamiliar voices. The frown deepened. _What were these people doing in her home? _She followed the voices and crept down the long, winding staircase. The sounds of cheerful conversation, punctuated by occasional laughter, rose up. She peeked over the edge of the banister. The large sitting room was filled with complete strangers, who appeared to be eating breakfast. _Her_ food. In _her_ house.

A sudden and horrible fury grew in her. _Not again. This would not happen again. _With an anger that once would have terrified her, she flew the rest of the way down the steps and into the sitting room. No one saw her. They continued to talk and gesture, ignoring her completely. Her anger gave her strength, and as she began to fling a variety of precious family heirlooms and silver dinner platters at the group, she found herself laughing wildly as they ducked and screamed, scattering about the room in confusion.

Nothing was too heavy for her. A huge potted fern flew across the room, narrowly missing a woman oddly dressed in trousers and a very immodest chemise. She chased them all out, the last man through the door receiving a thump on his back with a footstool. Standing back, she slammed the door shut with a very satisfactory boom, and vowed they would never set foot inside again.

xxxxx

"Maybe we should sit this one out," Sam ventured, looking at his brother.

"Why?" was the clipped response. Dean didn't take his attention from the road. The dark glasses hid his hazel eyes.

Sam sighed, quietly. Why couldn't anything ever be easy? "Maybe because it's been a long month and we're both tired and you still look like shit?"

"Aw, thanks, Sammy," came the drawling reply. "You sure know how to boost a guy's ego."

"Dammit, Dean." Sam raked a hand through his hair, reaching for patience. Just when he thought he had the whole persuasive argument figured out in his head . . . . Trust Dean to screw that up. "All I'm saying," he started again, carefully, "is that it's been one thing after another lately, and I, for one, could use a break. Don't tell me you don't need one, too." He held up a hand. "No, I said don't tell me. Because, of course, you wouldn't. You might fall in a heap on the floor at the next motel we stop at, but that doesn't mean you're tired. Not Dean Winchester. Oh no. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking."

"Are you done?"

"I don't know. Did it work?"

Dean flicked him a glance.

Well, at least Sam finally had his attention.

"Come on, Sam, how hard can it be? A haunted house with a pissed-off ghost. We can do it in our sleep – "

"We might have to," Sam muttered.

" – and then we'll be on our way," Dean went on, ignoring him. "Easy as pie."

"Riiiiiiight," Sam said. "Isn't it always?"

"Look, what the hell is the matter with you? This is what we do. We get a call from a friend of a friend of Dad's, we take care of business, and off we go, driving into the sunset like the heroes we are. End of story."

"What the hell is the matter with _me?_" Sam repeated, incredulous. "What the hell is the matter with _you? _We're runnin' on empty here, bro. We need some down time. It's only been a month since – "

"I know," Dean snapped, cutting him off. "And I'm all right. Quit worryin' already. We're almost there, so we might as well keep going."

Sam could see the stubborn line of his brother's jaw, and decided not to push, at least for the moment. But oh god, they did need a break. He slumped a little lower in his seat and turned his head to look out the window so he wouldn't have to see Dean's too thin face or the lingering bruise on his temple. How much more could they take? Dean had been on the receiving end of too many hits in too short a time, but he just kept pushing himself, and Sam was scared.

As if he hadn't been scared a month ago, when he thought he would lose Dean forever. But thanks to a miracle _(of sorts, if you consider a crazed preacher's wife using black magic; a bound reaper; and who knows what all a " miracle"), _Dean was still around to slay the undead. Which he continued to do with alarming disinterest for his own safety.

He was pretty sure Dean didn't blame him anymore for taking him to see Roy LeGrange – he was pretty sure that Dean blamed only himself. They had talked through part of it, as much as Dean was ever willing to talk about anything that came close to revealing emotion, but Sam knew he still felt guilty over the death of the stranger who had died in Dean's place. The dark sullen brooding seemed to have passed, for the most part, leaving behind a Dean who was unusually pensive, quiet, more introspective (and all the other synonyms Sam had come up with late one sleepless night while staring at the ceiling), but unfortunately, still willing to throw himself in harm's way if it meant saving someone else.

Especially Sam.

And Sam felt like he'd been riding an insane emotional roller coaster these past weeks. He was battered and scattered, and he just wanted to _stop. _He'd gone from seeing his brother dying in a hospital bed to witnessing his recovery in a faith healer's tent, and since then they'd hardly had a spare minute to catch their breath. A couple of nasty poltergeists in an old, family-owned hotel in Omaha (his thoughts flickered to Dean's face, pale and bruised), an unhappy, angry ghost in a cemetery across the state line in Council Bluffs, Iowa, and now they were nearing the site of yet one more job near Charleston, South Carolina.

_Just another day in the life of the family Winchester. Oh yeah. _

Sam stared out the window and desperately hoped he wouldn't dream that night.

xxxxx

Dean was acutely aware of the carefully – or so Sam probably thought – surreptitious and worried looks his brother had been throwing his way for the past month. And his brother's protective streak showed little sign of coming to a halt. The whole dying thing – well, it had been close, he knew that; he had been ready to accept it, but Sam refused to give up on him. He owed Sam his life. He just wished the price hadn't been so high.

But Sam was here, now, worrying and fretting, and when was the last time Dean had had someone fret over him? Sure, he'd relied upon his father to watch his back these past few years. There wasn't anybody better. But while John Winchester certainly knew how to stitch up and bandage his wounds, when had he ever really cared how Dean felt about anything? It was the hunt, always the hunt, and nothing else mattered. Weakness was unacceptable, disobedience even more so, and the hell with anything so messy as an actual emotion.

So Dean, the dutiful son, had clamped down on his feelings, years ago, because they had no place in John Winchester's world. And now here was Sammy, back after his years at Stanford, poking at Dean to talk, to share, to admit to pain, and Dean wasn't sure he even knew how anymore. Not since Sam had left . . . . Dean figured he'd been all of about twelve years old the last time good ol' Dad had given him any outward gesture of spontaneous affection. But Sam had always been one for hugging, for wrapping an arm around Dean's waist – or shoulders, especially when Sam achieved those three or four inches over him – and Dean had cherished that his whole life. But when he'd been sick, dying, he'd brushed Sam's supporting hand away, shrugged off the arm that fell so familiarly across his shoulder, and he hated himself for it.

He sneaked a look at Sam, seemingly asleep, and sighed. He had to admit it; he was tired. _One thing after another lately. No fucking joke. _A headache had begun to grind away behind his eyes, his bruised ribs throbbed with every breath, and he thought briefly of waking Sam up and asking him to drive.

But no, Sam needed the rest more than he did. He wished he could take away the nightmares for his brother, but he didn't even know how to do it for himself.

xxxxx

It was just nearing six o'clock when they turned off the highway onto a county road and entered the far western suburbs of Charleston. According to the directions and description from their contact, the house they were to de-ghost was actually part of an old plantation, the fields and land long ago sold off to become streets and neighborhoods. Sam, awake again, played navigator and read the map, calling out street names and telling Dean when to turn.

Sam pointed. "That looks like it right there."

Dean slowed the Impala in front of an impressive hedge and wrought iron fence. Tires crunched on gravel as they pulled into the curved driveway, and he gave an appreciative lift of one eyebrow. The whole place was pretty impressive. A large and stately three-story yellow house, it boasted a white-pillared wrap-around porch, cupolas, several chimneys, and an elegant lawn with what appeared to be quite an extensive garden in the back.

"Yep, looks haunted from here," he said. "Damn scary place."

Sam rolled his eyes as he got out of the car. "And that's your professional opinion?"

"Looks can be deceiving," he said, deadpan. He slowly followed Sam up the front walk, feeling the ache and pull of stiffened muscles. Trying not to take a deep breath, he pressed a hand against his ribs and winced.

They walked up to the front steps, stopped, then without a word split up to do a quick sweep around the house. Darkness had begun to fall, so they didn't go far before meeting up again.

"You getting any vibes there, Sammy?"

"Nope, nothing." Sam shot him an annoyed look. "And you know it doesn't work like that, anyway. Not all the time."

"Worth a shot, psychic boy."

"Hello? Can I help you?"

They spun around together. Dean squinted in the encroaching darkness and mentally berated himself for letting a petite, somewhat middle-aged woman in glasses sneak up on him. _Well, crap. I must be tired._ He felt Sam edge closer to his shoulder.

"Uh, yes, ma'am," he smiled. "We're here to meet a Doctor Virginia Lewis. About a job."

She stood, hands on hips, appraising them as much as they studied her. "Dean Winchester?" she said.

Dean nodded. "And my brother, Sam."

"Pleased to meet you," Sam said, putting out his hand.

She gave it an absent shake, still studying Dean. "You're younger than I thought you'd be."

Dean bristled, the smile falling off. "How old do I need to be?"

He didn't know what she saw in his face, but she tipped her head to the side, that discerning gaze suddenly making him uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," she said, abruptly. "It's just that from what my friend told me about you, I thought you'd be older. It sounded like you've been . . . doing things . . . like this for a long time."

"I have. We both have."

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm Ginny Lewis, by the way. Guess I forgot to mention that. Can we start over?"

Dean managed to dredge up a smile. "Sure. Nice to meet you, Doctor Lewis."

"Oh, just call me Ginny, all right? Now, it's just about suppertime around here, and I bet you boys could use a meal if you've been driving all day. We're not staying in the house, of course, because of the work being done, and now with whatever-it-is stirring things up, but we've got a place rented around the corner . . . ."

Though not making much sense, she still somehow had them getting their bags and following her to a brightly lit clapboard house across the street from the old mansion. She chivvied them inside like a dog herding sheep, showed them their own room – overriding all of Dean's half-hearted protests that they could find a motel – and told them to join the others downstairs for supper once they'd had a chance to clean up.

They dumped their bags and surveyed each other from across the beds.

"Nice," said Sam.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, eyeing the spacious, cheerful room, the double beds, and the comfortably stuffed chairs. There was even a fireplace. Definitely a cut – or six – above what they usually wound up settling for. He grimaced against the incessant throbbing in his head and looked longingly at the bed, suddenly wanting nothing more than to just crash for about ten or twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. He sighed, very quietly. _Or maybe a week._

Sam was exploring. "Got our own bathroom," he said, opening a door and sticking his head in. "_Really _nice."

They took turns splashing off, then headed down again, drawn by the smells of cooking and the chatter of lively conversation. Dean hung back a moment, letting Sam go first, feeling overwhelmed by the brightness and the animation in the room, in no mood to be sociable while surrounded by complete strangers.

Two open places were already set, and Ginny gestured to them to take a seat. They joined her and four other people at the large table in the dining room.

"Sit down and eat up, boys. Hope the room is all right – you don't mind sharing, do you? No more talk about staying at a motel, either. We've got this place paid up through the end of the month, and we're taking advantage of it. So make yourselves at home now."

Dean exchanged a raised eyebrow glance with Sam.

"She's always like that," a twenty-something young man said, grinning. "Watch out for Ginny when she decides you need taking care of. Welcome to the club. I'm Jason McNeil, overworked and underpaid grad student."

"Everybody, this is Dean and Sam Winchester," Ginny said, slapping Jason lightly on the back of the head and then ignoring his exaggerated yelp of pain. "They'll be staying here for a while to help out."

"Hope you can cook," Jason said. "What _is _this?" He poked suspiciously at the meat on the first serving platter that got passed around, but took a generous portion anyway.

"_I_ cook just fine. Shut up and eat," said a young woman with spiky black hair and several earrings. She smiled at Dean, obviously liking what she saw. "I'm Lissa Johnson. Another one of Ginny's students. We're all here to help with the dig and the restoration project."

To his own surprise, Dean thought it smelled just fine, too, considering what little interest he'd had in food lately. He loaded up his plate with a hefty portion from the first platter, as well as everything else that made its way around the table. Catching Sam looking at his plate, Dean tilted his head slightly. _See? I'm all right. Got an appetite and everything. Quit worrying. _

Sam gave him a rather snarky roll of his eyes that stated quite clearly Dean was full of shit and Sam didn't believe him for a minute.

"Uh, right," Dean said, turning his attention back to Lissa, and trying for a smile. _Yeah, okay, kinda sexy, in a_ _pierced, tattooed, Goth Chick sort of way._ What did she say? Dig? He scowled over at Ginny. She hadn't given him a whole lot of detail behind all this when she called him. _I think we've got a haunted house. Please come. _Yeah, that filled in a lot of gaps, didn't it?

"All right, no shop talk at the table, children. Sam and Dean had a long drive, why don't we let them eat in peace before we tell them everything? I think tomorrow will be soon enough. But we may as well finish introducing ourselves." She motioned to the remaining people at the table. "My other two students. Ian Stuart and Angie Banks."

Compared to Lissa, Angie had all the generic appearance of an anorexic bleached blonde model, but Dean figured she must at least be smart. Ian turned out to be as British as his name, with an accent that could probably cut glass at twenty paces. They all seemed absurdly young to him, pleasant, intelligent, and so damn _normal_ – hardly the type to make up ghost stories.

Dishes clattered and supper went on. Dean actually felt a knot or two unwind as he sat back, full from Lissa's cooking, and quietly listened to the friendly conversation and joking comments. Wistful, he saw Sam actually smiling, laughing, and joining right in, just like he belonged with the little group. At least he'd finally stopped paying attention to what Dean was – or wasn't – eating.

With the meal at last slowing down, he found a reason to excuse himself and started clearing dishes to the kitchen, followed by Ginny with her own armload of plates.

"Oh, good Lord, Dean, put those down. Let those kids with all the energy do the clean up tomorrow." She sighed and leaned back against the counter. "I can vaguely remember being that young," she added, as another burst of laughter sounded from the other room.

Dean leaned back next to her, his eyes drifting shut. "I don't think I ever _was_ that young," he murmured, mortified to actually hear the words out loud. _Shit, I _am _tired. Beyond tired. I'm freakin' dead on my feet. No pun intended. _He rubbed his forehead, fighting the headache that had yet to disappear.

"Oh, you're not any older than those kids out there. But how does that line from the movie go? 'It's not the years, it's the mileage'?"

His mouth quirked up in a slight grin. "You're quoting Indiana Jones at me?"

"Sweetie, I'm an archeologist. _Raiders of the Lost Ark _is my favorite movie." Then she gave him another one of those uncomfortably sharp looks and the voice grew soft, concerned. "Dean, are you all right? Tell me if I'm being a pushy old thing, but honey, you're looking awfully tuckered out, and that's putting it nicely."

Such compassion from someone he'd just met nearly undid him right then and there. He straightened up, dropped his hand away and met her gaze. "You're not old, and you're not pushy," he said, trying to deflect her with charm and a smile. "It's been a long couple of days, is all – " _Make that a damn long month. _" – but we'll be ready to go take a look at the house tomorrow."

She reached out and patted him on the arm. "All right. But you rest up tonight. We'll have a big breakfast in the morning, tell you what we saw, and then let you boys take it from there. I appreciate you coming all this way, really. We've all worked too hard on this project already to have it disrupted by . . . whatever it is that's out there." She gave him a wry smile. "I always prefer to have an expert on the team. Thanks for coming, Dean. Now, you get yourself to bed. We'll see you two in the morning, and not too early, either. You sleep in if you need to."

_I think I've just been adopted_, Dean thought. _How the hell did she manage that, and why aren't I more pissed off about it? _He shook his head, too tired to puzzle it out.

"Thanks, Ginny. Goodnight."

Dean nodded to her, and as he walked back through the dining room, he saw Sam start to rise out of his chair to come with him. His brother appeared content to stay and talk for a while yet with the other students, but Dean could also see the momentary flash of unguarded worry that crossed Sam's face even as Dean gave him a reassuring wave. Sam sat down again, slowly, eyes narrowed. Dean felt those eyes focused on him as he made his careful way upstairs, and he knew he wasn't hiding the pain as well as he should. Sam would see right through him. And keep on worrying. Shit. Maybe Sam was right; maybe they just needed a break, just a few days . . . .After this was all wrapped up, of course.

It wasn't all that late, but after a hot shower to ease the aches and bruises, Dean got ready for bed. His ribs continued to clamor somewhat fiercely, and his head still pounded, so he caved in and chased some ibuprofen down with a glass of water. The bed felt as wonderful as he thought it would, and he sighed in utter bliss as he slipped between cool, clean sheets. Curling up under the covers – not forgetting his knife, no matter where he was or how tired – he was asleep even as his head hit the pillow.

xxxxx

He awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon frying. Momentarily disoriented by that and the fact that bright sunlight poured through the windows, he decided to just lie there, warm and drowsy, before making an effort to get his bearings. He was used to waking up in unfamiliar surroundings (and what, exactly was "familiar" these days, other than the presence of Sam?). He noted the other bed, empty, and panicked for a heartbeat even as he remembered.

_Charleston. Haunted house. Adoptive professor. Oh yeah. _

_Sam. Worried, about him. Bruises. Ribs. _

"Hey," said the object of his musings, peering in around the door. "You're awake."

"Hey," he said back, rubbing a hand over his eyes, slowly sitting up. At least his headache was gone. The ribs, well, he decided not to go there.

His brother stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. "Feeling better?" he asked tentatively.

Dean could read the concern in his lanky body, in his eyes, in his voice, and he thought again of John Winchester, who would not even have bothered to ask, just assuming Dean was all right, and that would be the end of that.

"I'm good, Sammy," he said, a slight smile curving his mouth; and oddly, he meant it, though probably not the way Sam envisioned. Sam was here, with him, not away at school. He still cared, even after the time they'd spent apart, living different lives.

_("You're my brother, and I'd die for you," _echoed far too frequently in Dean's mind, and not always when Dean was awake.)

"Thought I'd let you sleep in," Sam went on, sitting down on the other bed. "There's still breakfast downstairs. Then Ginny wanted everybody to tell us about what happened last week."

"She say anything to you about that yet?"

"Nope. She wouldn't let anybody talk about it at all last night. Kept the conversation firmly on other topics. Anyway, I came up not long after you did, but you were already asleep."

"I slept just fine, Sam," he said, sighing, seeing the way Sam studied him. "I _feel_ fine. Now let's get this show on the road, huh? We got spooks to bind and burn."

"Dean . . . ."

"Sammy?" He raised an eyebrow at his brother. "What?" he added, when Sam just sat there, staring at his hands.

"I don't know," Sam sighed, looking up at last. "Let's just . . . take this one slow, okay?"

"Is that your Spidey-sense tingling here, Sam?"

Sam lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I don't know," he said again. "Something. Maybe. It's . . . so soon after the other two, and it just feels . . . weird."

"Sam, weird is what we do. Weird is normal for us. Or do you mean even weirder than that?" He got up, trying to hide the wince from Sam, and started to go about the morning business of washing and shaving and getting dressed. "So, what is it, dude?" he called from the bathroom. "We're here, we're gonna do this, all right?"

He could hear Sam's frustrated sigh as he turned on the faucet, but his brother's answer was lost in the sound of running water.

xxxxx

Sam couldn't repress a shiver as Dean disappeared into the bathroom. His brother still looked like shit. Cocky, smirking, full of himself, all the usual Dean Winchester traits were in place, if a trifle forced, but Sam didn't like the fact that he was a little too thin, a little too pale, and the shadows in his eyes were just as dark as the bruises he kept trying to hide.

Since Nebraska, Sam had found Dean . . . oddly vulnerable, almost fragile, and that turned Sam's view of reality on its head. He felt cold inside, scared, helpless, and about ten years old again. Dean couldn't be fragile; Dean was his big, tough, older brother, who when he got hurt tossed it off with a smile and a smartass remark, and that was that. But since Nebraska . . . . His brother put on a good show – good enough to fool everyone.

Everyone except Sam.

"Stubborn idiot," Sam muttered.

Dean had looked death in the face a month ago, and Sam wondered if he was looking even yet. He'd never figured his brother for the suicidal type, but after leaving the faith healer – and Layla – Dean had taken more chances than usual in their recent hunts. Images flashed through his mind. _(Dean shoving him aside, taking the brunt of the falling ladder and flying chunks of masonry; Dean running into the burning room of the hotel when they discovered the little girl had somehow been lured back in by the ghost; Dean waiting until the last possible moment to blast the furious spirit with a shotgun full of rock salt.)_ He wasn't being stupid, or even careless, especially, but Sam realized Dean was fighting his demons in the only way he knew how.

"Fuck," he said softly, dropping his head into his hands. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He'd just have to watch him, is all. Look after him. Look out for him. And not let him do anything too stupid.

When Dean emerged from the bathroom, Sam had to admit that his brother did look somewhat better this morning. Of course, he couldn't see the bruises, Dean made sure of that – so no doubt they were probably still turning several horrendous shades of green and purple – but the long deep sleep seemed to have done him some good.

"Okay," Dean said, tossing a towel back in the bathroom. "Let's go find out what we've got here, huh? Spook talk over bacon and eggs, Sam, doesn't get better than that."

"Oh, shut up."

Dean just grinned.

They joined Ginny and the others downstairs at the dining room table again, breakfast dishes and plenty of coffee still in evidence from earlier. Lissa soon had a full plate of eggs, bacon, and hash browns sitting in front of Dean.

Sam barely restrained the eye roll he felt Dean deserved, but on the other hand, if a pretty girl wanted to ply his brother with food and fatten him up, it was fine with him.

Dean smiled as he thanked her, the charm in full force this morning. Apparently he didn't have a problem with it, either.

Sam found it strange that they were sitting around a breakfast table, ready to discuss the business of ghost hunting. Not that he and Dean didn't do it all the time, of course, but this . . . this was almost too weird. _("Sam, weird is what we do." Uh huh.)_ A group of students and a college professor. Sober, serious academics. Researchers. Scholars. _Hm. Should be interesting, at any rate . . . ._

"Very well," Ginny started, briefly glancing down at the pile of papers and folders that lay on the table in front of her. "I hope you boys got a good night's sleep, because we have a lot of ground to cover today."

"Uh oh," Jason said. "Lecture time."

"Shut up," said Angie, wearily, as though she'd said it too many times already. "Just for once."

Sam very carefully hid a smile and did not look at Dean. He could so relate to that.

Glancing between them, but then directing her attention at Dean, Ginny simply asked, "Where would you like me to start?"

Dean played with his scrambled eggs for a moment before pushing the half empty plate aside. He lounged back in his chair, seemingly at ease, but Sam could see his brother's hunter nature beneath that calm façade.

"Why don't you start with what had all of you run screaming out of that house and scared enough to track down my phone number?"

"Well," she said with wry, lopsided smile, "since you put it that way . . . . Last Tuesday, the five of us and two members of the staff of the County Historical Society met in the Thornton house for a bit of a celebratory breakfast." At Dean's questioning look, she just said, "I'll explain later. Suffice it to say, the last thing we expected over our coffee and croissants were the sights and sounds of crockery flying through the air, smashing glass, and thrown furniture. One minute we're discussing the upcoming restoration project, and the next we're running out the door – " she shook her head, smiling faintly, "screaming our collective heads off. And we haven't been back inside since."

"Good idea," Dean nodded dryly.

"And that was the first time you noticed anything strange about the house?" Sam asked.

"How long had you been working in it before last Tuesday?" Dean put in, right on his heels.

"In answer to your second question, just over two weeks," Ginny said.

"What about the first question?" Dean prodded, when she fell silent.

Lissa spoke up. "After the flying furniture incident, well, we all started thinking. I mean, it didn't mean much before that, but, something was . . . weird. We all sort of noticed it, but only afterwards, you know? Like it took us that long to put it together."

"What the lovely Lissa is trying so hard to say," Jason said, his usually good-natured humor suddenly turning sharp and biting, "is that her overactive imagination decided she'd been hearing and seeing things that weren't really there, but didn't want to admit it. The mind is so fragile, isn't it?"

"Oh, shut up," she said, in about the same way Angie had earlier. "What I mean is, looking back, yeah, there were weird things. Sudden cold drafts in a room where the windows were closed. The sound of footsteps, only nobody was there. Sometimes, I swear, something just glimpsed out of the corner of your eye, even a voice . . . ."

"What kind of voice? Could you make out actual words?"

Jason stared at Dean. "Are you _serious?_ You actually believe in this shit? Spirits and rattling chains and vengeance from beyond the grave?" He laughed derisively, shaking his head. "Oh, this is too good. The Hardy Boys are here to save us from Casper the Friendly Ghost. Not to mention Lissa's little paranoid imagination." He shoved his chair away from the table and stood. "I have some serious research to attend to. I suggest the rest of you forget this nonsense and do the same." Ignoring Ginny's outstretched hand, and without a further glance, he left the room.

"And I suppose the bruises on my back from that perfectly thrown footstool are all part of my imagination, too?" Ian's shouted words followed Jason's retreating figure. "Stupid sod," he muttered.

Dean winced in sympathy. "Footstool, huh? Damn."

Ian, surprisingly, grinned, and said, "Yeah. Not exactly heroic."

"He was the last one out the door," Angie put in. "He pushed us ahead of him. I think that counts as heroic." She batted her eyelashes at him, and the others laughed.

Ginny shook her head. "Jason was there, along with the rest of us, but he's having some trouble believing the evidence of his own eyes."

"Either that, or he's more afraid than he's willing to admit," Ian added.

"Oh, he's all skeptical bluster," snorted Angie. "Just call him Scully."

Sam grinned, and caught Dean doing the same. "It sounds like the rest of you are rather . . . accepting of what you experienced."

"Four Mulders to one Scully, not bad odds," Dean said.

"Honey, I don't always spend my time on this kind of project. I've done plenty of battlefield digs, and I have to say, walking Gettysburg at night under a full moon, well, it's hard _not _to believe in ghosts."

"Hard not to believe when you see it right in front of you," Angie said. "How else do you explain noises and voices and the feeling you're being watched?"

"Like the man said, 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,'" Lissa added.

"Yeah, Shakespeare knew his ghosts, all right," Dean said.

Sam looked over at him in obvious surprise.

"What?" he asked, pretending to be irked. "I can't read Shakespeare?"

"Well, only if it's the comic book version."

"Smartass."

"Jerk."

The others were looking on in obvious amusement. Sam noticed, and cringed, just a bit. _Oops. Well, at least he didn't call me a bitch . . . or something worse. _

"You sound like my brothers," Angie said. "Of course, they happen to be fourteen and sixteen."

Dean ducked his head, a rare blush suffusing his cheeks. "Sorry."

She laughed. "No, it almost makes me miss them. Kinda sorta."

"Happy to oblige," Sam smiled, secretly enjoying Dean's embarrassment, and glad to see him looking something other than pale and tired. "Dean acts fourteen, most of the time," he added. Then he gave a yelp as Dean's foot connected with his ankle under the table.

Dean gave him a blandly innocent smile. Sam tried glaring back, but could only think that a kick on the ankle was worth it to see a spark in his brother's eyes.

"Boys." Ginny cleared her throat and brought them back to the matter at hand. "What else do you two need to know? We've compared what we've seen, and Lissa's right in that we only put it together after the . . . shall we say, manifestation, in the sitting room. Cold areas, odd noises, but nothing threatening until that morning."

"What exactly is it that you're doing here?" Dean asked, all business again. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. "How did the house fall into your hands, anyway?"

"We're doing research, in a variety of disciplines. Archeology, that's Lissa and Jason's field. Ian's a student of architectural history, and Angie's working on her history thesis. The house was actually donated to the Historical Society I mentioned earlier – it was in the former owner's will. She recently passed away. Aside from a few healthy bequests to friends, she left everything to the museum. So we were given a grant, and allowed to spend some time studying here, and helping out the museum."

"How did the owner die?"

"Emma Thornton Dubois died peacefully, at the age of ninety-seven, in her sleep."

"Living relatives? Other family in the house?"

"Husband died fifteen years ago. The closest living relative is a great-grandnephew or something, spends most of his time in Europe, and has no interest whatsoever in the old family homestead. Didn't contest the will at all."

"Okay, I guess Emma's ghost would've been way too easy," Dean muttered. "What about before she died? Anybody ever notice anything? Did she have any hired help we could talk to?"

"No history of a haunting," Ian said. "We did track down the gardener, and the old lady's live-in help, but they said they'd never seen anything remotely out of the ordinary in all the time they worked here."

Dean looked surprised. "Uh, yeah, good work. We'll need to do some more research," he said, going on. Sam caught his sideways look. "Dig into the history of the house, the people who lived here, how they died."

"You're looking at it," Ginny gestured at her pile of papers. "That's basically what we've already been doing since we got here. But I suppose we need to broaden our perspective, now that we're looking for something beyond when the slave quarters were torn down or when the fields got sold off."

"This place was an old plantation, right?" Sam asked.

"You got it, but now it's just the house and the gardens out back, a couple of acres altogether. It pre-dates the Civil War, built in 1832, and remarkably unchanged since then. The house, that is. Let's see, we've still got the carriage house, some gardener's sheds and such, a gazebo, or summerhouse, if you will, and the stable, since converted to a garage. All quite well preserved, but getting a little ragged around the edges. Emma didn't seem very interested in keeping things up towards the end."

"Have you done any actual digging?" Dean asked. "I mean, have you disturbed the ground anywhere, or torn anything down?"

Ginny looked thoughtful. "You think that's what started our unhappy ghost to take to wandering the halls? We dug up something we shouldn't have? I've got Lissa and Jason working on an area that we ascertained was part of an old trash site – good stuff," she added, seeing their mirrored expressions. "But, I swear, we haven't seen any sign of bodies or bones. Nothing to indicate a disturbed burial."

"Doesn't always have to be," Dean said, remembering other times and places where it hadn't taken much at all to rouse a restless spirit.

"You boys are quite the fount of knowledge. Well, how about we give you all our pooled research so far, and you tell us what you want us to look at next. You've got four trained researchers here – five, if we can get Jason back, and though we might not have the eyes to look at these things the way you do, we can give it our best shot."

"Thanks," Dean said. "We'll take you up on that."

xxxxx

The others had wandered off in various directions to work on their own, leaving Dean and Sam in the dining room.

They worked steadily all morning, going over the research notes the group had put together. It was very thorough, with names and dates, maps and old photos, but as Ginny said, not quite in the scope of their kind of investigation. They traded pages, Sam had the laptop up and running, and Dean absently flipped through John Winchester's journal, not even reading the pages but simply touching each one as his eyes quickly roamed across the familiar entries.

In their usual style, they tossed information back and forth, read excerpts from various reports out loud to each other, bounced theories around, and eventually narrowed the field a bit.

Discounting the idea of Native American burials, battlefield sites, and, more reluctantly, the entire slave situation, they decided to focus on the Thornton family itself. Since Ginny and the others had noticed the odd signs of – something – only in the house, they dug deeper into the lives and deaths of the many Thorntons over the last one hundred and seventy years.

It did not, Dean thought, look promising. So far, nothing they'd uncovered felt likely. Putting down the newspaper clipping he was reading, Dean stood and stretched, the resulting twinge reminding him not to do that again. "Shit," he muttered softly.

"You okay?" Sam looked up from the laptop to watch him.

"Yeah, just stiff from sitting." He walked around the table, thinking out loud to distract Sam from asking any more questions about his health. "Well, the way I see it, we've got a couple of possibilities. There's the guy who offed himself after the stock market crash in '29, and there was the drug overdosed teenager back in the fifties. Other than those two obvious situations, there doesn't seem to be anything unusual."

Sam leaned back, indulging in a bit of stretching himself. He laced his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. "I'd say it's a case of something in the Thornton family past that got covered up, or forgotten."

"Uh huh," Dean agreed. "A dark, dirty secret."

"Aren't they all?"

"Well, maybe your new college chums will come up with something. Whatever, though, I think we should go in the house tonight and see what we can find there."

"The Hardy Boys ride again," Sam sighed. "Sure you're up for this?"

"Hell, yeah, 'Joe.' Can't wait. Don't worry your pretty little head."

"Gee, 'Frank,' maybe it's the way you keep holding your ribs or rubbing your forehead when you think I'm not looking that makes me doubt your oh so earnest expression."

"Sammy," Dean said, stopping his pacing to stare over at his brother. "I'm fine. A little stiff, okay? I'm not dying here." Then he winced inwardly at that unfortunate choice of words as Sam paled and clenched his jaw.

"Sure, Dean," Sam snapped. The sarcasm did a poor job of covering the pain in his voice. "I forgot that you're indestructible."

"Sam . . . ."

"Nah," Sam shook his head. "Don't mind me. I'm just the geek little brother who worries too much, right?" His voice rose. "I mean, just because according to the doctors you should be dead by now from a severely damaged heart, I guess it just pisses you off that you're not, so you keep trying anyway. So why should I worry? Jesus fucking Christ, Dean, I'm sorry how you got healed, but I'm not sorry that it worked. I don't want you to be dead!"

Stunned at the sudden outburst, Dean could only stare for a moment. "Sammy, it's not like that . . . . I'm not . . . ." He swallowed. "I'm not trying to get myself killed." At least, he was pretty sure he wasn't . . . .

"Yeah, right." Sam stood up and brushed past him, not meeting his eyes. "I need some air."

"Sam, come on, dude . . . ."

Sam didn't turn around or even slow down.

He sighed wearily and sat down again. "Shit," he said, running his hand through his hair and continuing to swear quietly for several inventive minutes.

_A damn long month._

He thought they'd been okay with what had happened in Nebraska, and afterwards. Okay with each other, at any rate. He didn't blame Sam for any of it. Maybe at first, briefly, but how could Sam have known there was anything evil behind it all? But Dean's life had come at the cost of someone else's, someone innocent and unknowing. Dean would have to live with that, and if he looked close enough, he could admit that maybe Sam was right, in a way. He was grateful to be alive, but sometimes, sometimes . . . he didn't think he deserved it.

Shying away from any more in-depth introspection, he forced himself to get back to the notes, back to work, and carry on like he always did, pushing his own pain and doubts aside to focus on the hunt. One small bitter thought floated up from somewhere.

John Winchester would be so proud of him.

xxxxx

Not long after Sam left, Ginny showed up. She slid into the chair Sam had been sitting in and waited for Dean to acknowledge her. He glanced up, catching those brown eyes studying him from behind the wire rim glasses. Her greying, light brown hair was swept up in a careless ponytail, she wore jeans and a sloppy t-shirt, and he thought she looked quite the part of the absent-minded professor, or maybe a den mother for a group of Boy Scouts.

But those eyes were hardly absent-minded about anything, and he felt a mental cringe coming on.

"Sam seemed a little upset when I walked past him a few moments ago."

_Oh, yeah, no mercy here. Go straight for the jugular._

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Oh?"

"Uh huh. I believe the exact words I overheard were 'stupid, stubborn idiot.' Are you boys all right?"

"We're good." _Liar. She's so gonna spot that one, moron. _"Just . . . ." What was it about this woman that made him want to spill his guts? Just because she had kind eyes and got nice laugh lines when she smiled, and she called him "sweetie" and was old enough to be his mother? "We're just kinda tired, is all, I guess," he said finally, struggling not to say more. This was his problem, not hers. "Sam wants to take a break from . . . this. Thinks we've been pushing it kinda hard lately."

"I think maybe he's right, sweetie." She leaned forward to pat his hand. "This whole thing can wait. Whatever it is that's in that house, as long as we stay out, we're fine. No point in anyone else getting hurt. This is not that important a project."

"Nah, it's okay. We're gonna go in tonight, take a few readings with some equipment, and take it from there. Standard stuff. Really."

She arched a skeptical, Spocky eyebrow. "You're not being totally honest with me here, hon, but I can't tell what about. And I wish you'd reconsider going into the house tonight. Hell, I'm the one who called you here, you should be taking orders from me, right?"

"I suppose you could look at it that way," he drawled. "But I'm not sure I can take orders from a . . . civilian."

Tossing her hands in the air, she said, "Yeah, Sam was right. Stupid, stubborn idiot."

"Uh huh. I'll take that as a compliment."

"You gotta work on toning down on that charm, boy." She stood, gave him that arm pat again, and said, "You and Sam talk things out. I don't want you two having an argument over this. I'd hate to think we caused you boys to have words. All right? Everybody's on their own for lunch, so you just go grab what you want. Why don't you make Sam a sandwich? I saw him heading outside, probably out in the yard. Go on, now." She made shooing motions at him.

He had to laugh at how easily she had manipulated him. "Okay, 'Mom,' I'm going."

xxxxx

Carefully balancing two plates and two cans of Coke, he made his way out the kitchen door into the backyard, and indeed, there was Sam, reclining in a lawn chair.

He put his peace offering on the table beside Sam and sat down in the other chair. Sam shot him a sideways glance that told Dean he was still pissed. And worried, and scared, and all those other emotions Sam hadn't been able to hide since Nebraska.

"You brought me lunch."

"Ginny made me." God, he sounded five years old. He popped open the Coke can and took a long swig, not quite sure how to do this. How to talk to Sam.

"Well, that was nice of her." Sam picked up a sandwich and eyed it thoughtfully. "Turkey, mayo, lettuce, and tomato. You must really feel terrible."

"Don't forget the chips and the pickle. Hell, I wanted to send you a card, but she insisted on the whole lunch and talking thing. She said something about you calling me a stupid, stubborn idiot."

"How perceptive of her to know I was referring to you."

Dean groaned. "Come on, Sam! Cut me some slack here!"

"No."

"What do you want me to say?" he snapped, surging to his feet and turning partially away from Sam. "I'm not blaming you for Roy LeGrange! If it had been the other way around, I would've done the same thing, you know that! I would've done anything . . . ."

_("You're my brother, and I'd die for you . . . .")_

"I know," Sam said quietly. "You've forgiven me. Now just forgive yourself, all right?"

"Oh, yeah, thanks, Dr. Phil."

"Maybe I'm right, okay? Think about it. Show me you've got a functioning brain somewhere in there."

"Smartass," Dean muttered.

"Jerk." Sam started eating.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He sank back down in the chair, hands clasped loosely between his knees. "Look, Sammy, after this gig, I promise, we'll take a break, okay? Maybe go sit on the beach or something. Let's just do this job for Ginny, and then we'll call it quits for a while."

"You still want to go in tonight?"

"Hell, yeah. Piece of cake. Look, I'll do it myself if you don't want to come. No big deal."

"Are you fucking nuts?" Sam stared at him, sandwich forgotten in one hand. "I take it back. You don't have a brain. At all. Do you really expect me to watch you walk in there by yourself? What do you take me for?"

"Aw, thanks, Sammy." Dean tried not to sound too smug, but judging from the look on Sam's face, failed spectacularly. He tried harder, before Sam could get any more pissed. "Let's poke around the other buildings first, see if there's any sign of our spook out there, and then do the house."

"You are such a complete asshole," Sam said, shaking his head. "A moron, an idiot, and I don't know why I let you do things like this to me. You need to have your head smacked into a wall a few times, not that that would do any good. You dumb bastard – "

"I get the idea, Sam!"

"Good. About time." He took another bite of sandwich, and talked around it. "It's this, and then we're done."

"Absolutely." Dean nodded vigorously, hoping he sounded contrite.

"Are your fingers crossed behind your back?"

"Aw, Sammy . . . ."

xxxxx

While going over the grounds, gardens, and other buildings during the afternoon, Ginny had tagged along to watch. She had wanted to come with them when they explored the house ("Scientific curiosity!" she insisted), but they were adamant. Disappointed but grudgingly understanding, she had acceded to their firm stance, and now waited outside –but not across the street, where Dean would have preferred – with Lissa, Angie, and Ian. Jason had shown up earlier, during supper (Chinese take-out tonight), but to everyone's relief, had not joined in the discussion at all, only helped himself to some food before disappearing again.

Dean gave the professor points for a) wanting to know what she was up against; and b) being smart enough to let them handle it.

Hefting his bag of equipment (gun, knife, rock salt, lighter fluid, all the usual) over one shoulder, Dean opened the door and led the way into house – loaded shotgun tucked under one arm and EMF detector in his other hand. Once inside, he traded a nod with Sam, and they moved slowly down the hallway, detector and Sam's digital camera all focused for any sign of a ghostly presence. They kept the lights off, and it was completely quiet except for their own footsteps.

It was all so familiar. He and Sam were on the hunt, watching each other's backs, and, if they were lucky, ready to do some bone burning. Dean grinned to himself at the thought as he walked, angling the little homemade detector into the corners of the gradually darkening room. _Hunting as a comfortably familiar vocation. Yeah, we're freaks all right. _Then he gave himself a mental shake and got back to the matter at hand.

"Sam? You getting anything?" he whispered.

"Definite signs," Sam replied, low-voiced, from a few feet away. "There's something here, all right."

The EMF meter glowed. "Uh huh, you could say that . . . ."

They continued their sweep through the first floor, moving slowly from sitting room to dining room, library, study, kitchen, back parlor, finding the usual evidence that something _else _had been here and stillwas.

"Okay," Dean said, "it's definitely stronger in the house. Didn't see anything like this in any of the other buildings or on the grounds."

Sam gestured at the wide staircase they stood in front of after circling back through the house. "Up?"

Distracted by a noise that wasn't from either one of them, Dean turned around, head cocked. "Did you hear that?"

"What?" Sam whispered, peering into the darkness beside him.

A light tinkling of glass. They both looked up, Sam flicking on the flashlight he'd been carrying. The ornate chandelier swayed, ever so slightly. Dean glanced down to the detector in his hand. Glowing all the way across.

"Spook time," he muttered. A sudden temperature plummet in the immediate area confirmed it, as if he had any doubts.

Then another sound reached his ears, of a door slamming shut somewhere, and the thud of careless footsteps across creaking floorboards.

Dean looked at Sam, and Sam shrugged back. They moved forward, Dean turning one way and Sam another, only to stop when a loud, mocking voice greeted them.

"Hey, if it isn't the ghostbustin' Hardy Boys!" Jason stepped into the beam of Sam's flashlight, squinting at them, his eyes taking note of their equipment. "Wow, you guys look, like, totally serious about all this! Can I have some neat toys and play too?"

"Son of a _bitch,"_ Dean muttered. Louder, he said in a snarl, "What the fucking hell are you doing here, Jason? Didn't you get it when we told everybody to stay out?"

"Aw, come on, what could happen?" He was grinning as he walked over to stand in front of Dean. "You guys don't really believe in all this shit, right? You're only doing this to keep Ginny and the other nervous kiddies calmed down."

"You moron! Get out, right now, before I kick – "

"Uh, Dean?" Sam was slowly pivoting around, shining the flashlight behind them. "I think we've got some other worries to deal with first."

Dean turned, and heard himself saying, "Son of a bitch," out loud again. A wispy figure floated before them, no real shape, just a bit of drifting fog, but real enough for Dean to feel the attention the apparition had focused on them. And it wasn't friendly.

In other circumstances, he would have enjoyed the jaw dropping expression of utter disbelief followed by outright panic on Jason's face; but like Sam said, they had something else to deal with first.

The lights in the house flared on, the sudden brightness momentarily blinding them. One hand briefly shielding his eyes until he could see again, Dean ditched the EMF detector and the bag from his shoulder to free both hands and brought the shotgun up to bear. But the figure had vanished.

"Sam!" he yelled. "Anything?"

Sam was swiftly aiming the camera around, shaking his head.

"Shit," Dean said, shotgun up and ready.

Several things then took place at the same time.

As he often experienced during a hunt, time slowed down for him; his senses heightened to a point where everything, colors, sounds, the smallest details, all were suddenly vivid and clear, and the hunter that he was noted everything.

The chandelier rattled louder than before. Numerous objects that stood on the fireplace mantel flew through the air to crash against the opposite wall – not far from Jason – and a small whirlwind uprooted two chairs before dropping them to the floor again ten feet away.

Dean ducked when the vases and candlesticks went flying, did a quick check on Sam – hunkered down, still tracking their uninvited guest – and then caught a glimpse of Jason, frozen in a predictable deer-in-the-headlights reaction. Eyes wide in a pale face, he paid no attention to Dean's shouted advice to hit the floor. Instead, with a loud incoherent yell, the grad student suddenly shook off his inability to move and made a panicked break for the front door.

_Oh, spare me from fucking amateurs. Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

It all happened so fast. In one sickening second, he saw Jason tugging futilely at the closed door even as the whirlwind sent one of the heavy chairs straight at him.

Ignoring Sam's shout and without further thought, Dean tossed his brother the shotgun and threw himself in Jason's direction, hoping to shove the oblivious _(and fucking stupid, goddammit)_ student out of the way of the chair. He leaped, and managed to push Jason aside, glimpsing the other man fall away in an ungainly sprawl.

Dean just figured it was the way his luck had been running lately. He was unable to hold back a cry of pain when his already damaged chest and ribs took a solid hit as the chair crushed him instead of Jason against the door.

"Dean!" Sam's shout reached him through the haze of pain. "Dean!"

"Do something!" Jason was screaming. "Get us the hell out of here!"

"Dean, I can't get a clear shot!"

Dazed, Dean could only think about trying to breathe. The chill was back in the air, colder than ever, and it swirled around him. The mist grew thicker. He couldn't see. A cool draft caressed his cheek, drifted over his eyes, and wrapped gently around his throat. _Oh, shit. I'm dead. Come on, Sammy . . . ._ His fingers reached up and grasped at nothing.

He could still hear Sam yelling his name, but even the sound of his brother's voice soon faded into a black void. It was just like before. When the reaper had him, draining his life away . . . . It was so dark. And he was so very cold . . . .

TBC . . . .


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Dean!" Sam shouted his brother's name. "Dean!"

In an instant the whole damn gig had all gone to hell. He heard Dean cry out as the chair hit him dead on and pinned him tightly against the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jason, now on the floor, scrambling away from the mist that slowly and insidiously wreathed its way around a trapped and helpless Dean.

Jason screamed something about getting them the hell out.

_Fuck that. Not while this thing has my brother._

"Dean, I can't get a clear shot!"

Dean's cry of pain, abruptly silenced, had Sam moving fast. Unable to get a shot off, he threw the useless weapon aside and dashed over to Dean's bag to pull out the ever-present shaker can of salt. Wrenching the lid off, he closed in and simply flung the salt in a wide arc over the apparition. The coiling, shifting mass of mist quickly succumbed and fell apart in shreds. Then it vanished, the lights flickered a time or three before going out completely, and for the moment, he knew they were once again alone.

Not that he was about to take any chances.

Sam yelled at the stunned Jason to grab their gear, and, with a silently muttered oath, reached Dean's side. With the spirit – and its power – gone, he was able to free Dean from the chair's crushing weight. For a horrible heart-stopping moment, Sam thought Dean wasn't breathing. His face was utterly bloodless, and he wasn't moving at all. But when Sam grabbed his brother's sagging body, he was relieved beyond measure to hear a rasping breath as Dean fell forward into his arms.

"Get the door, Jason!" he snapped, when it looked like the other man was coming to help him. He didn't want Jason even touching Dean. "Hurry up!"

Unconscious, Dean was loose-limbed and heavy, but fear lent Sam strength. Quickly maneuvering his arms around his brother, he lifted him as much as he could and hauled him out through the now open door and down the wide front steps.

Ginny stood there, shocked and horrified at the sudden turn of events, but completely in control. Sam heard her barking the address into her cell phone even as she moved forward to help Sam.

But with Dean's weight bearing them both to the ground at this point, Sam simply sank down with him, reluctant to let go. He could only shake his head exhaustedly at her, unable to answer any of her questions. The surge of adrenaline gradually subsided, he could feel the sweat soaking his hair, and he started to tremble as he sat there with Dean resting against his chest. Sam clutched him close, sitting on the dewy grass in front of the house, and when he put a hand to Dean's face, starkly bone-white in the dim streetlight, his skin felt far too cool.

"Dean, wake up, come on. You're seriously scaring me here, dude," Sam said into his brother's ear. "Come on, show's over. Time to wake up."

_Crap, crap, crap. You were supposed to keep him from doing anything stupid. Yeah, stupid, as in saving a jackass from getting his head bashed by a solid oak chair._

Ginny crouched next to them. "Ambulance is on its way, Sam." She took off the sweater she was wearing and draped it over Dean. "Are you all right?"

Sam got his breathing back under control. "I'm not hurt," he said. "Dean's the one who took a hit for that idiot Jason." His head turned and he spotted the group of students, including Jason, standing off to one side, looking scared and slightly in shock, but keeping a wary distance. "Make sure he stays away from me for a while," he added, his anger rising.

"Okay, Sam."

The flashing lights and siren cut off any reply he would've made. He had to give Dean up to the paramedics as they loaded him on a gurney, all the while talking in medical shorthand, but thankfully, they let him ride in the ambulance. Mostly because he refused to take "No" for an answer. All the while, Dean lay pale and still, barely breathing, and stubbornly unresponsive to Sam's continued pleas to wake up.

The night continued in a horribly familiar and surreal fashion. The ER staff whisked Dean away, leaving Sam standing there, slightly dazed, holding Ginny's green sweater. He blinked and for a moment he forgot where he was, which city, which hospital, and Dean was dying…

He found a chair, off in a corner, and wearily sat down to wait, thinking that he just couldn't take it any damn more.

Dean hurt. Again. He was so tired of seeing Dean hurt. One more excellent reason to swear off hunting. If only he could convince Dean to go along with that…

Right.

He dropped his head into his hands, but all he could see behind his closed eyelids was Dean, crushed against the door of the old house – _but not on the ceiling, not on fire_ – and trapped in swirling fog. How many times was that particular image going to play out in his nightmares?

"Sam?" Ginny dropped into the chair next to him. She rubbed his shoulders, and said, "How are you, hon? Any word yet?"

"What…what are you doing here?" he asked, bewildered.

"We came to be with you," she said simply, and she tipped her head to one side, gesturing, and he saw the others, but no Jason, standing in a cluster much like they had back at the house. "They're all worried, Sam, so we came together. Any word from the doctors?"

"No, nothing. They just took him away –" Sam swallowed with a suddenly dry throat. "Ginny," he said urgently, turning to her, "we can't tell them what happened. You understand? We can't. They'll think we're crazy. We'll have to make something up."

"It's all right, Sam," she said. "I'll take care of it. We'll just say that Dean was hurt moving some furniture in an old house and he took a tumble. It'll be fine. Don't worry. Dean will be all right."

And Sam stood by and watched in amazement as she pulled it off. She spoke with complete authority and assurance to the admissions nurse, explaining who she was and making up a story that was close enough to the truth that even Sam believed her. He then found himself gritting his teeth and preparing to dig out some fake credit card or phony health insurance with an equally phony name, but Ginny thankfully spared him that supreme embarrassment by claiming Dean as a student and so covered by the university.

Then he handed Ginny her sweater and went back to his corner chair to wait. Ginny put her sweater on, told him she was going in search of coffee, and the three grad students drifted over. Lissa and Angie, both red-eyed from crying, took seats on the other angle of the little corner, and Ian leaned up against the wall. They didn't say anything, but he was strangely grateful for their presence. Then Ginny came back with coffee all around, and took the chair next to him, calm and reassuring.

Sam sighed and grimaced at the coffee, knowing that it would be terrible, but he choked down a few swallows anyway. He sat, and waited, his coffee grew cold, and he found that his thoughts had turned to Jason McNeil. Maybe that Spidey-sense, as Dean liked to call it, was tingling after all, because Sam suddenly looked up just in time to see Jason further down the hall, but quickly turning and walking away as soon as he saw Sam notice him.

A cold rage burned through Sam, and before he knew it, he'd gotten up to go after the other man. He caught up to him with a few strides of his long legs, and slammed him up against the corridor wall, heedless of the immediate attention of the curiously watching staff – who were no doubt two seconds away from calling security.

Ignoring the blustered, feeble attempts at an apology, Sam twisted his fists firmly in Jason's jacket and used his considerable advantage of height to stare down in undisguised fury. He kept his voice low and bent just close enough to get in the nervous man's sweating face.

"Listen to me, shit-for-brains, you nearly got my brother killed. He saved your worthless ass from that homicidal bitch, and thanks to you, he's in a hospital for the third time in a month. If he wakes up with anything worse than a stubbed toe, you are toast. You got that? I will personally toss you back into that house and lock the door, and let that thing do to you what it wants. But for now, just stay the hell away from me."

Part of his mind thought for sure that he was channeling Dean, and dude, didn't that feel good?

He uncurled his fists and dropped Jason, barely resisting the urge to fling him face-first down the corridor. Dimly aware of the other students on their feet and standing in stunned silence with Ginny, he turned away from them all to get himself and his raw emotions under control.

And now here he sat again, more than an hour later, or two, he didn't know, and still no word from the doctor. Jason had, thankfully, disappeared. More coffee, and Sam sat and waited, and sat and paced, and waited some more, God knew how long, and his eyes were bleary but all he could see was Dean, pinned like a bug against that door and trapped in ghostly mist.

"What's taking so long?" he muttered. "Maybe I should go ask –" He started to stand but Ginny put a hand on his arm.

"Just a little longer, okay, Sam? Give them time. They'll let us know as soon as they can, honey."

"I know, I know, but…" He sighed again, and it was all he could do to keep himself from screaming.

_Don't do this to me, Dean. I can't take it anymore. You had better be all right, or I will so kick your ass. Right after I kick Jason's. Never mind, forget Jason. If you're not all right, I'll torch that house and gladly watch it burn to the ground if that's what it takes to get rid of that thing…_

"Sam, I'm so sorry I got you boys into this." Ginny's soft voice broke into his murderous thoughts. "I wish I'd never called you. I can't believe that the situation got so…out of control."

He turned his head to meet her eyes, and he gave her a weak smile. "Oh, it's not your fault. Please don't think that." Then he added, reluctantly, but knowing it to be true, "It's not even Jason's, really. Dean just has this…" He smiled again, sad and rueful this time. "Habit, I guess you could say, of mindlessly leaping into harm's way if it means saving someone else. He can't seem to help it." _Especially lately, especially since Nebraska._

"He sounds like quite the hero. I suspected as much."

"Yeah?" He played along.

"Oh, definitely. Put him in a fedora and he'd give Indiana Jones a run for his money."

Sam laughed, but it turned halfway through into a sort of sob, and he had to shut his eyes very tightly before the tears fell. He felt Ginny's hand briefly grip his own.

"Doctor's coming, Sam," she said quietly, giving his hand a squeeze before releasing it.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Please let him be all right, please please please. Dean, you have got to be all right…_

He stood on suddenly shaky legs and the mantra continued to run through his head as he turned toward the ER doctor who had worked on Dean. Ginny stood slightly behind him, and the others were on their feet as well, looking anxious, but Sam could hardly spare them a glance.

"Sam Winchester?"

"I'm Sam Winchester." He licked dry lips. _Please be all right. Please. _"How's my brother doing? Can I see him?"

"Mr. Winchester, I'm Doctor Goyal." He drew Sam somewhat away from the others and spoke quietly. "We're moving your brother to a room right now, and we're going to keep him here overnight. As soon as he's settled, you can see him for a moment."

"What…what's wrong with him? Why does he have to stay?" He thought that surely those were snakes writhing in his stomach right now, and he was afraid he just might throw up. "Doc, what's wrong with Dean?"

The doctor pursed his lips, and stared down at the chart in his hands. "Mr. Winchester – "

"Sam, please."

"Okay, Sam. Your brother has some severely bruised ribs – bruises on top of bruises, I should say. Looks like the older ones are from a week or so ago?" At Sam's nod, he went on. "He's incredibly lucky – nothing broken, but he cracked two ribs this time around. Some new bruising on his chest, not quite as severe, and we've started treatment with some icepacks. We were initially concerned about internal bleeding, but again, he's lucky, nothing there to worry about. He's got a bit of a bump on the back of his head, though no sign of concussion." Another pause and a glance at the clipboard had Sam feeling those snakes again, stronger than ever. "However… Sam, your brother is still unconscious and unresponsive. Quite deeply unconscious, actually, but the injuries he sustained this evening aren't severe enough to account for it. We'll monitor him closely tonight, and we'll be running more tests if he doesn't wake up soon."

"Is it a coma?" Sam swallowed the lump in his throat. Or maybe it was those gut-churning snakes, squirming higher.

"No, but at this point I can't say anymore. I'm sorry. But can you tell me if your brother has suffered a recent trauma? Other than the obvious bruising, I should say."

Now Sam fought against an almost hysterical urge to laugh. _Recent trauma? Try the last twenty-two years, Doc. Or do you just mean the whole electrocution, massive heart attack, one month to live thing? Of course, after that, there was the healed by a reaper thing, coupled with overwhelming survivor's guilt and a mind bent on self-sacrifice, but other than that, hell no, Doc, he's just freakin' fine. And then there's the fact that a malevolent ghost attacked him earlier tonight, but I can't exactly tell you the truth about that, either… _

"Uh, no, not really," he managed to say, working on his best wide-eyed innocent look. "Just some insomnia, I guess, and his appetite hasn't been the greatest since his ribs got banged up. Kinda tired, you know."

The young ER doctor was nodding. "Yes, it's very possible that he is simply taking the opportunity, so to say, to catch up. I noticed signs of fatigue and stress, and that, together with these most recent injuries, could be the cause of his non-responsive behavior."

"But you'll let me see him tonight, right?"

"Of course. The nurse will let you know when he's settled in. We'll take good care of your brother, Sam."

"Yeah, thanks."

The doctor nodded politely to him, and turned away to deal with his next crisis.

Sam blew out a breath, and sagged against the wall. He rubbed his eyes; the exhaustion of the last month, the worry, the fear, _everything_, suddenly hitting him like a tidal wave. He was numb, and so damn tired of hospitals…

"Sam, honey, what is it?"

He dragged his eyes open to see Ginny, close by, and the others, hovering just out of reach. They all looked shaken and tired. Sam somehow straightened up, but remained leaning on the wall for support and tried to focus.

"Um, well, Dean's okay, mostly, but…he isn't awake. They don't know why." He heard the tremor in his voice and tried to pretend it was anger. "That damn dead thing in the house hurt him somehow, it did something to him, and he's still unconscious."

"Oh, Sam." Ginny took one his hands between hers and gripped it tight. "What can we do? Is there someone I should call, someone I can get here for you?"

_Been there, done that_. _"Hey, Dad, it's Sam… It's Dean. He's sick, and, uh, the doctors say there's nothing they can do…"_

Yeah, like _that_ phone message had worked the last time. That had really brought John Winchester straight to their door. Dean _dying_ wasn't enough, why would the man bother to show up this time? It was just the two of them. Brother looking out for brother. Again.

"No," he said, distantly, eyes blurring. "There's no one, just us."

He thought Ginny looked faintly troubled by that, but she only said, "All right, Sam. We'll wait here for you until they've let you seen Dean."

"Oh, no, Ginny, no, you don't have to wait, really," he protested. Futilely, as it turned out. She just smiled at him, sat down, and everyone else did too. "Um, thanks, you guys," he added, awkward, meeting their eyes, getting a nod from Ian and watery smiles from the girls.

Well, maybe this time it wasn't quite just the two of them.

Then a nurse was there, taking him to see Dean. As he poked his head cautiously around the door of his brother's room, Sam nearly reeled with a sickening sense of déjà vu. His hands shook, his mouth went dry, and his heart hammered in his chest.

Dean. Lying far too still. Pale and bruised.

_Not again. Please, not again._

And Sam thought, briefly, with a sudden flare of vicious anger, that it should be Jason McNeil lying there instead, not his brother. Not Dean, who just had to be the hero.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he wearily sank in the chair next to the bed. This was a different city, a different hospital. Dean hadn't just suffered electrocution and a massive heart attack. He wasn't dying…

"Dean," he said softly, carefully watching his brother's features. "Hey, bro, you in there? What did that thing do to you, huh? Come on, don't tell me some wussy little ghost can take down Dean Winchester…"

He reached in between the bars of the bed, threading his hand around the various wires and tubes to gently grasp Dean's hand, the one without an IV in it, thinking that if Dean were awake, this mushy stuff would really embarrass the hell out of him. Well, what Dean didn't know about the mushy stuff wouldn't hurt him.

Dean's hand was cold. Sam gripped tighter, trying to warm the chill fingers with his own. He rested his other hand briefly on Dean's forehead, shocked at how cool he still felt. Just like outside the house, when he'd held him on the ground.

"Hey, Dean," he whispered, leaning close. "I can't stay long, they're gonna kick me out soon. So you'd better wake up, okay? I mean it. You gotta snap out of this, dude, or they're gonna be doing brain scans and all sorts of horrible stuff to you. Now I know you're in there, I know you can hear me, so just wake up already. Come on. You can do it. Please…"

Not a flicker under a closed eyelid, not a twitch of the fingers that Sam held so tightly. Dean was as pale and cool as marble. Sam thought bleakly of tomb effigies, of stone angels, and shuddered.

"What the hell were you thinking, anyway, huh?" He rubbed his free hand across his eyes. "When are you gonna learn you're not Superman? If you weren't already beat up and looking terrible, I'd kick your sorry ass." He sighed. "Piece of cake, we'll just do this job for Ginny and then we're done. Yeah, right. You big dope."

He almost expected Dean's green eyes to snap open at that point and give him shit right back, but no such luck. And though the monitors clearly showed a steady heartbeat, Sam reached out and put his hand on Dean's chest anyway, just to feel the thump for himself.

Sam simply sat then, Dean's hand wrapped in his, until the nurse returned and gently told him he had to leave. Reluctantly letting go, he tucked his brother's hand, slightly warmer now, under the covers and pulled the blankets up higher before standing.

"I gotta go. But I'll be back in the morning. Don't give the nurses a hard time, okay?"

He gave a final lingering look from the doorway, considered briefly begging to stay the night in Dean's room, but knew from unfortunate experience that it wouldn't work.

God, he was so tired of hospitals. So tired of seeing Dean hurt.

He wiped his eyes and went to find Ginny.

xxxxx

Dean was in a cold, dark place, and were he a man prone to panic, he would have been screaming. He did allow himself one breathless moment of sheer terror, when at first he thought he'd been buried alive, but he just as quickly realized that that wasn't quite right either. Not that the alternatives held much comfort…

He could neither move nor see anything at all. He didn't even know if his eyes were open or closed as he strained to glimpse something, anything, in the darkness. Maybe he didn't have eyes. Or toes or fingers, since he couldn't seem to move them anyway.

Okay, maybe just a little bit of panic here…

He thought he was frowning, in his head, at any rate, as he fought to remember what could have put him here. Cold, so cold. _Oh fuck._ The reaper. Grasping his head, driving him to his knees in the mud-churned field behind the faith healer's tent, stealing his life away… But no, Nebraska was weeks ago, right? He'd been in a house. Something had slammed him into a wall, and then, and then… Clinging, cold mist. Tendrils of white fog had entwined around his throat and chest, squeezing tight. He'd been choking, unable to breathe, to make a sound, and –

_Sam! Where's Sammy?_

Had that fucking thing gotten his little brother? Sam would've saved him, if he'd been able. Something must've happened to Sam. He had to find him…

He fought, gritting his teeth (he thought), and struggled against the weight of the dark that crushed him. After an eternity he thought he could hear a quiet murmur of voices, very faint as though he were trying to listen to a conversation in another room. Another eternity later the darkness began to lessen; he could see – _see!_ – light glimmering off in some indeterminate direction, and he reached for it like a swimmer underwater reaching for the sun. The murmuring voice sounded familiar, and it got louder, a little clearer, and he felt a tingling warmth that started in his fingertips and crept its way slowly up his arm. Then he burst through the veil and took a deep gasping breath, and everything went black for just a moment as the pain hit.

"Shit!" he hissed between clenched teeth as he jackknifed almost upright. "Son of a _bitch!"_

Hands shifted, moved to his shoulders to grip him tight, and a weight settled next to him. He opened his eyes, mere slits, but open, still clenching his jaw against the agony that shook his entire body. But oh, it felt good. To feel _something_, even pain, and know that he was alive. He heard quiet beeping, the telltale noise of monitors and machines, and thought, _Hospital. Goddammit, not again. _

"It's all right, you're all right now," the voice was saying, over and over. "Take it easy. Dean, it's all right…"

"Sammy…" he whispered, going limp with relief.

One of the hands on his shoulders, familiar hands with long fingers, moved to curve around his back, pulling him close, and Dean leaned into his brother's chest, his head against Sam's heart, pushing away the pain the simple movement aroused. He let Sam hang onto him, not fighting the gesture, needing the physical contact as much as his brother. But too soon, feeling suddenly self-conscious, he forced himself to ease away; he immediately missed the warmth of his brother's arms as Sam helped him to lie back against the pillows. Sam didn't go far, but remained sitting on the edge of the bed with his arm braced on the other side of Dean's body.

Sam leaned over him, red-eyed, mashed bedhead hair and all, and said, "It's about time you woke up." Equal parts worry and relief were palpable in his voice and on his face, and Dean figured things must've been pretty damn bad on Sam's end as well.

Dean quickly scanned him for bruises, wounds, and bandages, but beyond looking grey with exhaustion, he seemed okay, and most of Dean's terror faded away at the sight of a living, breathing, Sam. But…

"Sammy, are_ you_ all right?" he croaked. Sam started tugging on blankets and rearranging twisted IV lines. "What the hell happened?"

"Take it easy," Sam said, still fussing. "Lie still."

Since Dean lacked the strength to barely lift his head, he grudgingly decided that Sam probably had the right idea. Not that he liked it, of course. Sam, satisfied at last, sat back, and just stared at him.

"You're all right?" Dean asked again.

"I'm fine," Sam sighed, shoulders slumping. "You're the one who's been out cold for over ten hours."

"Huh?" He shifted slightly in the bed, winced, and realized he must've cracked a rib or two. _Oh, great. _"What the hell?"

"What do you remember about last night?"

He had to think about that, trying to recapture the fleeting memories of just moments ago. "Uh, we went in the house, and…I got thrown across the room?"

"You did the throwing. Aside from the furniture, that is. You pushed Jason out of the way of a very nice leather-covered reading chair." Sam swallowed, hard, and looked away. "I really wish you'd stop doing things like that."

Oh, yeah. It was starting to come back to him. No wonder Sam was pissed.

"Sammy. Sam, look at me." He tried to sound stern and commanding, but knew it wasn't working. "Come on, Sam," he cajoled. Sam turned back, eyes suspiciously bright. "Honest, Sam, I meant what I said before. I'm not trying to get hurt – " _Maybe. Mostly. I think. _"But Jason wasn't moving, he was scared shitless, and I couldn't let him get hurt if I could stop it."

"I know," Sam said miserably, swiping at his eyes. "That's what I told Ginny. You can't help it. Absolutely Pavlovian. You're still a stupid, stubborn idiot, though."

"Yeah," he sighed, his breath hitching slightly, and feeling every damn bruise in places he didn't think he even had bruises. Of course, he hadn't seen the new batch yet. "I think you're right, actually. When can I get out of here?"

"You just woke up, jackass. You got more bruises, cracked ribs –"

"Tell me something I don't know," he grumbled.

"And you were unconscious – for _ten hours, _Dean! – after that thing wrapped itself around you last night. The doctor was going to start running some serious tests this morning if you weren't waking up. Probably still will, just to see if you've got a brain in there, which I am really having my doubts about, Dean, so just shut up and lie still and don't even think about getting out of here."

_Yep, Sammy sure is pissed._

"Come on, Sam, I just need some Tylenol, a couple of icepacks for the bruises, and I'll be fine." He tried to quell the tremors that ran through him at Sam's mention of the ghost. _It hadn't been the reaper, this wasn't Nebraska, and you're not dying. Not today. _He shivered, and his body wanted to curl up. Sam noticed, of course.

"Dean –"

Cutting Sam off, Dean said, "You saved my ass in there, didn't you, Sammy? That thing had me all wrapped up like dinner in a spider's web, but you got me out."

Sam shrugged. "Threw some salt on it. Got rid of it long enough to haul us both out of there."

The conversation was suddenly beginning to tire him. "Thanks, dude," he said, trying to keep his eyes from sliding shut. "Knew you could do it." He felt another shiver course down his spine.

Sam stood up, ready to bolt. "I'm getting a nurse, the doctor, somebody. I should've told them right away you were awake. Take it easy. I'll be right back."

"I'm just cold, Sam. Please, get me out of here, okay?" Dean knew he was whining, but he didn't care. He had to get that look of constant haunting worry out of Sam's eyes, and he couldn't do it if he was stuck in a hospital bed. "What are you gonna tell 'em, huh? That I was out of it 'cause I got zapped by a pissed-off angry spirit? Rules, dude. Don't say anything that'll get us put in a white padded room. I'm all right now. You know how much I hate hospitals, come on…"

Though it took a good long while, in the end Dean won. He grumbled through the poking and prodding; he put up – barely – with the tests that continued to come back negative; he bitched about the awful hospital food that an overly perky little candy striper served him at lunch (because Sam refused to go get him a burger and fries); but he really hated the fact that when the puzzled doctors finally threw up their hands and admitted that he could indeed check out, Sam had to help him get dressed.

He saw the grimace on Sam's face when his brother caught his first sight of Dean's battered torso. Dean had pulled on his underwear and jeans, shrugged out of the ridiculous hospital gown and Sam had visibly flinched, bitten his lip, and just breathed a quiet, "Crap, Dean." After helping him pull on his t-shirt, Sam wound up tying Dean's bootlaces for him. And with that final humiliation, he was able to leave armed with a prescription for some pain pills and a lecture about taking care of his cracked ribs.

Sam got him into the passenger seat of the Impala, and he sat hunched over in pain, pale, sweating, and Sam veered between ill-hidden anxiety and forced lightness. The return to the house felt like the drive to Nebraska all over again, only shorter.

But then he'd been dying. He bit back a moan. Not that this felt like much of an improvement.

Back at the rented house, they followed the voices and found everyone in the kitchen – research in progress, it appeared – and obviously surprised to see him with Sam. With smiles and relieved, cheerful greetings they gathered round. Ginny was instantly there, studying him with a frown before giving him a careful hug, her arms warm around him.

"Oh, Dean, whatever are you doing out of the hospital? I'm sorry to say it, honey, but you look terrible."

Rather surprised himself by all the attention, slightly embarrassed, he nevertheless managed a clumsy one-armed hug in return before she stepped away. "I'm fine, Ginny, really."

"Sam said you'd say that." She rolled her eyes, her expression remarkably similar to Sam's.

"Good to see you up," Ian said, smiling. "The girls were rather distraught last night."

Lissa punched Ian on the arm. "Oh, like you weren't, you stuffy Brit." She stood on tiptoes to give Dean a kiss on the cheek. "We're _very _glad to see you. You had us all worried."

As Lissa moved back, Angie said, "If you were my brother, I'd smack you for scaring me. But I think you've had enough smacking. So just don't do that again, okay? Let Jason take his own thumps next time."

Dean cleared his throat and hoped he wasn't blushing. If Sam laughed, his little brother was so dead… The smartass, witty comeback he wanted to say died on his lips as he saw how suddenly serious they all looked. And tired. Hadn't anyone slept last night? Because of him? He licked his lips and tried again. "Sorry. Didn't mean for you all to be worried," he said, awkwardly. "It happens, once in a while. I'm okay, really." Then he glanced around, just realizing something. "Where _is_ Jason? Is he all right?"

Everyone looked at everyone else, except Sam. But no one said anything.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, suspicious. "What did you do?"

"Um…well, I got a little, um, upset, I guess you could say." Sam ducked his head, and his shaggy bangs hid his eyes.

"Sammy. Spill. You didn't beat the poor guy up, did you?"

"Um," Sam started again, still avoiding Dean's gaze.

Ginny rescued him. "Sam just let Jason know how very unhappy he was with Jason's behavior last night."

"And now Jason's hiding in his room," Lissa added.

"Because he's afraid of your brother," Ian finished.

Dean winced. "Aw, Sam. Since when did you start acting like me?" Then the room started to waver, and maybe he did, too, and he tossed Sam a quick look of mute, desperate appeal. He hated for Sam to see him like this, but better Sam than a room full of people he'd met less than forty-eight hours ago.

Sam thankfully got the message and put a steadying hand under his elbow, and then Ginny was on his other side, ushering them out the door.

"I think it's time we let Dean rest for a bit," she said over her shoulder. In a lower voice she added, "Dean, honey, let's get you into bed."

Never a man to pass up a straight line, Dean gave her a friendly leer as she slid a gentle arm around his waist. "Now those are words I love to hear coming from a woman's mouth."

Sam groaned, very quietly, and braced him with an arm around his shoulders. "Just ignore him," he said to Ginny, over the top of Dean's head.

Ginny's mouth turned up in a smile. "I hate to break it to you, sweetie," she said dryly, "but with the shape you're in, it'd hardly be worthwhile."

Though Dean found that he was leaning more of his weight onto Sam and every step jarred a twinge somewhere, he grinned as they made their way slowly up the stairs. "Ginny, darlin', I'm _always _worthwhile."

She hooted with laughter, as he'd known she would, and Sam just groaned again. But at least he made it up the stairs and onto his bed before he passed out.

xxxxx

It was dark, and he was cold, just like before. He knew he had to get out of here, but his limbs were leaden and refused to move any faster than a slow plod. His breath rasped hard and loud in his chest, and the tremors from the cold continued to grow worse.

Cold as the grave… He knew the reaper was out there, stalking him. He could feel its dead hands on his face already, leaching the warmth and strength of his life away to give to someone else… To Layla. But if it would save Layla, would that be such a bad way to die? She deserved to live. More than he did. Just like her mother had said. But he couldn't leave Sam, could he? Who'd look after Sam? It was his job, always had been and always would be, no matter how old they got. He almost laughed at that.

_Yeah, like you're gonna get any older at the rate you're going._

He heard something, told himself to pay attention, and strained his senses in the darkness. A light footstep. Behind him. _Oh shit oh shit oh shit, you are so dead. Run. _But he couldn't move at all now. The terror he'd held at bay rose up to choke him, and he fell to his knees, the single sobbing breath that escaped the only sound in the darkness. He was so cold. And so very tired. _Let it be quick, _he thought despairingly. _Let it be over, because I don't have the courage to face you again. Come on, then, you skinny bastard…_

When the hand under his chin lifted his head, he was too weary to resist. It would be over soon, and for that he was grateful. _Sorry, Sam, I can't fight anymore, not even for you. Sorry. I'm sorry…_ But the hand on his face wasn't the bone-chilling, leathery grip of the reaper. It was soft, and small, and suddenly he could smell…roses.

He opened his eyes and looked up to see a pale, ethereal woman, dark-haired and beautiful, standing before him. His confusion grew as she stroked her hand across his forehead, and she looked at him with such longing and loss that it nearly made him weep.

_Who are you? What do you want?_

But then she dropped her hand and simply stepped away, to vanish into the dark, and he cried out as he was grabbed suddenly from behind. He fought and twisted away, finding that he wasn't ready to give up after all. As he struggled, a sharp, knifing pain in his side had him gasping.

The grip he fought against loosened slightly, but didn't let go, and he heard a voice beside his ear. Come to think of it, it had been there for a while.

"Dean?" It sounded pleading, desperate. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. Come on, Dean, wake up. Please."

Dean stopped his struggles, breathing hard, his body going limp. But he didn't fall because someone held him, and it wasn't the reaper or the strange, beautiful woman. Opening his eyes he stared up and around into a very worried face.

"Sam?" he whispered. There was enough daylight yet in the room to see that he was tangled in blankets, with Sam sitting behind him on the bed. He could feel Sam's arms shaking from where they were wrapped around him, holding him tight.

"Sam." He breathed his brother's name again, like a talisman. Sam had called him, had dragged him out of the dark. Wouldn't he always come back, if Sam called? "Sammy," he said, suddenly noticing, "you're squishing me." Dean squirmed a little, just enough to loosen the hold, not enough to break it. He had a hazy memory of waking up in another bed with Sam's arms around him – what the hell? It was getting to be pretty damn embarrassing… Not that he felt like moving at the moment. The terror from the nightmare (it had been a nightmare, right?) slowly ebbed, but he found himself shivering again, and there was a cold blankness in his mind.

"Are you all right?" Sam said, equally cautious in adjusting his hold.

"I…" He frowned.

"Dean? You were dreaming."

"Uh, I guess." Dean kept on frowning as he quickly took in their surroundings. This was not the tacky motel room they'd been staying in. "Sammy…where are we?" Dean closed his eyes, seeing only shadows on shadows, feeling cold hands on his face; he was so confused and disoriented. Why was he lying here in Sam's arms? Why did he hurt so much?

He heard Sam's sharp intake of breath, and after a long moment, his brother said slowly and too calmly, "Dean, we're in a house in Charleston. In South Carolina. With a professor named Ginny Lewis, and her students. Don't you remember?"

"Not Nebraska?" He could feel Sam's heartbeat against his back. Hear the carefully controlled panic in his brother's voice.

"No, we left Nebraska about a month ago."

He twisted around so he could see Sam better. "Sam?" His brother's face was drawn tight with fear – for Dean. "The reaper…gone, right?" He swallowed, remembering a muddy field.

"It's gone," Sam said, more firmly. "It killed Sue Ann after the binding spell was broken, and it disappeared. Remember?" He let go with one hand long enough to tug the blankets higher around Dean.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Nebraska, they'd left Nebraska a goddamn month ago?

"Yeah," Dean agreed, slowly, "yeah, I guess." He searched his memory, finding despair and hope, pain and joy. "Then we left. Layla…" Sorrow pierced his heart. "We left her there, and I could've saved her, Sam. The reaper was taking my life for hers, and she deserved to live." Dean could hear himself rambling, but he was unable to stop the exhausted torrent of words. "Her mother asked me why I deserved to live more than her. I don't. I should've let it kill me. I was supposed to die anyway…"

"What do you mean, the reaper was taking your life?" Sam went utterly still.

"The reaper had me, Sam," he said wearily. "I was dying, I could feel it. And…I knew Layla would live if I died." Sam's cheek came to rest on top of his head. Funny how neither one of them seemed to want to move. Dean didn't think he could, even if he did want to. He hurt everywhere. He wondered how that had happened.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Sam mumbled into his hair.

"Didn't want you to worry," he admitted. "Got enough to worry about."

"You idiot."

"Yeah, well, like that's news," Dean sighed. "Sammy… What are we doing in Charleston? And what the hell happened to me that I don't remember the last damn month?"

"Long version or short?"

"Short, please. And simple. Don't think I'm up to the hard stuff yet."

Sam filled him in with a few succinct sentences.

"Oh." A ghost. Well, that made sense. "It messed with my head, you think, huh? And the bruises are from the chair?"

"Yep."

"How many times have you had to tell me this?"

"Twice now," Sam admitted. "You were a little confused at first when you came to in the hospital. But then you remembered everything."

"Well, shit, Sammy, that sucks." Taking a deep breath and gritting his teeth against the pain he knew would follow, Dean pulled away from a reluctant Sam and got his legs over the side of the bed to sit up on his own. His head spun for a moment and he thought he might just pass out again. He frowned. _Again? _Something…Sam and a woman helping him up the stairs, he fell on the bed… "Sam, did I break a rib?"

"Cracked two," Sam replied, standing up, making the bed creak. "Are you hungry? I think you need to eat something, and then take some pain pills. And then go back to sleep." He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp in the darkening room.

Dean squinted a bit in the sudden light. "Don't want to go back to sleep. I've slept enough." He shuddered, and couldn't quite meet Sam's gaze. "What if…" He bit his lower lip. "What if I keep forgetting? Whatever that thing did to me, I am screwed up but good, Sammy." God, he hated this. Physical injuries he could deal with, he knew how to ignore them, downplay them, and hide them from Sam; but what could he do about the fact that his memory seemed to be whacked and his mind was full of holes? He couldn't pretend that there was nothing wrong, not this time.

"We'll figure it out," Sam said, looking down at him. "We always do. Or else we'll just torch the whole freakin' house and get rid of the damn thing that way." He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and turned away. "I was ready to do it last night," he added, quietly.

"Ginny wouldn't have liked that," Dean said absently, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Sam spun back and grabbed his shoulders. "You remember Ginny?"

He looked up into Sam's hopeful face. "Uh, not really," he said, cursing himself for causing the hope to just as quickly disappear from his brother's eyes. "Just had a weird feeling…"

"Well," Sam sighed. "Maybe that means your memories are still somewhere in that thick skull of yours, and they'll all come back in time. Anyway, I'm gonna go get us something to eat. Stay out of trouble while I'm gone, okay?"

"Thought I'd take a shower, if that's okay with you, Nurse Nightingale."

"Yeah, you could use one," Sam said, immediately backing up as Dean reached for a pillow to throw. "Be right back." And he was out the door before Dean could retaliate.

Dean dropped his head into his hands. How did this gig get to be so fucked up? Was he cursed, or something? Did the Fates have it in for Dean Winchester? Bad karma, something he'd done in a former life? He sighed. _Nah, shit just happens. Drew the short straw. Again. Better me than Sammy… _And, of course, from what Sam said – and didn't say – when filling in the blanks of recent events, it's not like Dean wasn't helping the Fates along by flinging himself headfirst into trouble.

Oh, he was so gonna turn this spook into toast. A big ol' bonfire, nice and hot for burning bones, _that _would take care of it. And stop it from messing with his head. He just had to stay angry long enough to keep the nightmares and the darkness and the terror at bay.

_Suck it up, boy. _John Winchester's voice echoed in his head. _Forget the pain, forget the fear, and get the damn job done._

Dean got slowly to his feet, wincing, and went to take a shower.

xxxxx

Sam sagged wearily against the closed door of their room and waited until he heard water running in the shower. How had things gone south so fast? Dean hurt, again, and how did Sam tend to a wound he couldn't see? He just had to believe that Dean would be all right… "Crap," he muttered, pushing away from the door and heading downstairs to the kitchen.

Everyone had already eaten and scattered for the evening; he could hear the sounds of conversation and a television show coming from the big living room out front. In no mood to answer questions about Dean's current state of health, he was relieved to have the kitchen to himself.

He quickly found some leftovers in the refrigerator and set about warming them up. Having hardly eaten all day, his stomach was starting to rumble; he'd been far too keyed up to even think about food, but now that he could smell the stew reheating, he realized he was famished. He had fallen asleep halfway through the afternoon, staying with Dean, only to be woken by the choked cries of his brother's nightmare. His eyes still burned, and he felt gritty and wrung out, but he'd sit up all night again if he had to, if Dean was in trouble. God, how much more could they take? Dean, battered and bruised, paler than ever, struggling to hold his fear in check for Sam's sake, still protecting his little brother…

"Damnit," he said, sitting down at the table.

He didn't hear her until she said his name, and he looked up from his bleak thoughts to see Ginny.

Taking a seat across from him, she said, "Thought it might be you in here."

"Yeah, just came down for some supper. Dean just woke up."

She hesitated, then said carefully, "How's Dean doing, honey?"

Sam stared at the tabletop. "He's awake," he repeated. "Well, I woke him up. Out of a nightmare." How much to tell her? He didn't want her to worry, but he figured she had a right to know. Dean would probably kill him if he found out. "Ginny, he's…having trouble remembering things." He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "When he woke up in the hospital this morning, he didn't remember what had happened, not right away. And just now," Sam gulped, "he thought we were still in Nebraska, from a month ago."

"Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry." She reached out and took his hand, just as she had at the hospital. "What did the doctors say? Is there anything they can do?"

"They couldn't find anything." He shrugged. "He woke up, he knew his name, he was fine, as far as they were concerned. Like Dean said, what could we tell them, that he'd been nearly murdered by a angry spirit?"

"Well," Ginny said firmly, "you boys are not going back into that house. We'll find some other way to deal with our…problem. I won't have you risking yourselves again. We'll have the place torn down, if that's what it takes, museum be damned."

Sam mustered up a tired smile, wishing Dean could hear that. "Thanks. But maybe it won't come to that. And Dean won't give up, he'll still want to go after this thing."

"Sam, no, you can't be serious. Not after what happened to him."

He got up to stir the stew, and to put his back to Ginny so she couldn't see his face. "Dean's got a stubborn streak a mile wide," he said. "Especially if he's pissed off about something. And believe me, this thing has him pissed off. I've tried…" He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I've tried to keep him safe the last few weeks, and I'm not doing a very good job. He's the one who's always done the protecting, you see, ever since I can remember." With a slightly bitter laugh, he added, "He's doing it even now, even when he's hurt."

"Why is it different?" Ginny asked quietly. "What happened in the last few weeks that now _you _need to look after _him?"_

Sam stopped stirring, spoon poised. He could feel his shoulders slumping, utter weariness taking hold of him, and before he knew it, he had turned around again to meet her concerned gaze. The need to talk, to pour out his anguish and worry was almost overwhelming.

Ginny just waited, not pushing, and he finally rejoined her at the table. He spent another minute or two playing with the salt and pepper shakers before looking up.

"Dean was…hurt, badly, not long ago," he began, his voice low. God, it still hurt to say that, to think about it. "The doctor at the hospital in – Jesus, I don't even remember the name of the place – gave him two weeks, maybe a month at the most." Hearing Ginny's sharp gasp, he took a breath and hurried on, leaving out the more…otherworldly elements of the story. "Well, he's all right now. I mean, he's not really – he's not dying, but he's been…reckless ever since, taking too many chances. There was this…girl he met, who was sick, dying, and he keeps thinking he should have saved her. He feels guilty for being the one to live." Tonight, that sudden and horrible revelation – _"We left her there, and I could've saved her, Sam. The reaper was taking my life for hers, and she deserved to live." _Sam shuddered. How close had it been? If he hadn't found the altar and Sue Ann in time, and destroyed the amulet, would Dean have simply let himself be taken?

"And now, God –" He swallowed, his throat dry. "I finally saw those bruises, the ones he's been hiding, and now more on top of those… Ginny, I can't even believe he's been able to move. Well, yeah, I can, what am I saying? This is Dean we're talking about here, Mr. Invincible. Stupid, _stupid_ bastard. If he weren't already in such bad shape, I'd slap him upside the head for being such a jackass…"

His voice gave out at that point, and Ginny reached over with one hand to pat him on the arm in what was already a familiar gesture.

"It sounds like you boys have had more than your share of hurt lately. I don't understand completely what it is you do, but I can tell that it's dangerous. And Dean, well, he's just a hero, isn't he? He wants to do what's right, and he's willing to pay the price. Even though I only met you two, I can see that about him."

"Yeah, that's Dean, all right," Sam said hoarsely. "He's a pain in the ass, but he does have his moments."

Ginny laughed softly. "He does indeed." She hesitated, cocked her head at Sam, and said, "This memory problem, Sam… If the doctors couldn't find a physical reason, could it be psychological? From what you've told me, and I admit, I'm making leaps here, it sounds like Dean might be, oh, I don't know, deliberately repressing those memories somehow. After what he's been through, maybe it's sort of a delayed reaction to the events that are causing him such pain."

Sam sat up. "What, like post-traumatic stress syndrome, you mean?"

"Yeah, something like that. Maybe that knock he took from our resident ghost was just enough to trigger it. The mind is a strange place. I'm obviously no expert, but from what I've read…" She shrugged and spread her hands. "Don't give up. You said he remembered in the hospital, it just took him a little while. Get some food into him. Let him have a good night's sleep, and who knows? Tomorrow morning he could be back to his pain-in-the-ass self."

"The memories aren't the only thing worrying me," Sam admitted wearily. "It's the guilt, and this willingness to get hurt. Like he's punishing himself. I don't know what to do – Dean's not the kind of guy to talk, you know? I've tried. But he just shuts me out."

"Maybe he just needs time, Sam. People work through the hard patches in different ways."

He nodded, and then rolled his eyes at himself. With a snort, he could only shake his head. "God, I can't even believe I'm telling you all this. I'm completely babbling here. Dean would probably kill me for spilling all this. Sorry. It's not like you need to hear all about the problems of the Winchester brothers. But you're a good listener," he added. "Thanks."

"My pleasure, Sam. Now, I think you'd better check that stew before it explodes on you." She stood up and moved to the doorway, pausing only to say, "Go take care of your brother, Sam."

He had already jumped to his feet and turned back to the stove, but he managed to call out his thanks to her before she completely disappeared. The leftovers were indeed simmering nicely, and Sam filled two bowls, found everything else he needed by rummaging through cupboards and drawers, and loaded it all on a tray

Sam made his way as quickly as he could back upstairs. Nudging the door open with his foot, he was relieved to see Dean out of the shower and sitting on the bed, looking more alert and even with some color in his face. His hair was damp; he was sort of dressed, having pulled on a pair of baggy grey sweats, and, of course, a shirt to hide the bruises.

"I found dinner," Sam announced, setting the tray on the nightstand between the beds. "Eat." He handed Dean a bowl and a spoon, snagged the other one for himself, and took up a mirroring position on the opposite bed.

Dean poked at it. "Well, it's not a burger, but I guess it'll be all right." He dug in and starting eating, slow and careful, as though not sure how it would go down.

Sam tried not to watch too closely. He'd have to work on that eyes-in-the-back-of-his-head trick, he supposed, if he wanted to keep track of his brother without Dean knowing about it.

After making sure Dean finished every bite, he used all of his persuasive talents – and not above playing the guileless little brother card – to get Dean to take the prescribed pain medication and go back to bed.

"Not tired, Sammy," Dean insisted, smothering a yawn, and then glaring when Sam just raised an eyebrow. "Jesus Christ, Sam, I slept all day!"

"You need it. Just take the damn pills, and lie down, and be quiet."

"Bossy, bossy, bossy," Dean muttered. "All right. But I am _not _going to sleep."

"Sure, Dean," Sam nodded, and tried to squash the knot of worry in his gut when Dean gave in so easily.

Dean growled. At least, that's what it sounded like to Sam. But he took the pills, and flopped down on the bed again. "If I can't remember my own damn name when I wake up," he said, "it's all your damn fault."

Sam cracked a smile, sort of, and said, jokingly, "Just don't forget mine."

His eyes drifting shut, Dean said, "Not a chance, geek boy."

With the pills already kicking in, he was asleep within minutes.

"Goodnight, Dean," Sam whispered, as he drew a blanket over his brother.

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

A/N: Apologies for the pokey-ness. I'm writing as fast as I can, honest…

Thanks to everyone for all the lovely reviews! I confess to emitting undignified, maniacal squeals of delight every time a story review alert would pop up in my email. If I didn't respond to you individually, please don't think that I'm not reading and appreciating every single one. When I hit a snag, I go back and look at them again, to spur me on. LOL!

Thanks again to Moe, for allowing me to confuse her; and thanks to AJ, for my very own Killer Plot Bunny with Big Pointy Teeth.

xxxxx

Chapter 3

Sleep, deep and dreamless, held him fast. Awareness came slowly. A faint, elusive scent of roses, sweet and heady, tugged at his memory, only to fade when he woke more fully. And he felt someone watching him. Because his body was doing an excellent impression of having been run over by a truck, he took his time to turn carefully on his less damaged side. He just caught Sam's gaze before his brother shifted quickly away to look out the window instead.

"Hey," Dean said, blinking owlishly.

"Hey, yourself," Sam said, looking guardedly back at him again from where he sat in one of the big, stuffed chairs, laptop resting on his folded legs. "How…um, how do you feel? Everything okay?"

Dean mulled that over for a long moment. There was a reason why Sam was scared, why the longer it took for Dean to answer the sicker Sam looked…

"Yeah, Sammy," he finally said, surprising them both. "I actually remember you, me, and what I had for supper last night." Since Sam still had that wary, ill-hidden expression of fear or hope or something on his face as though not utterly convinced of Dean's sincerity, Dean added, "And I remember what happened yesterday at the hospital, and the night before that, when that bitch of a ghost nailed my precious ass to that damn door. Really. Happy now?"

Actually, Dean was pretty happy about it himself.

Sam sighed, tension visibly bleeding from his shoulders. "Ecstatic, believe me. I was getting tired of having to tell you everything over and over since it kept leaking out of your ears."

"Thanks, dude, very funny. Mock the mental patient." He eased himself up and into a sitting position against the headboard, with only a bit of groaning that he couldn't quite hold back. Sam had started to get up to help, but Dean waved him off with a grimace. God, he was getting sick of this. Maybe it _was_ time he stopped throwing himself in front of furniture for a few days; the college boy might just have a point there.

"But, still…" Sam began cautiously, eyeing him and apparently not liking what he saw. "Do you actually remember the hospital?" he demanded. "Or do you just remember me telling you about it? What about Ginny, do you remember her? Come on, Dean, I need some more proof here. Don't bullshit me about this." Sam's eyes were wide and pleading, wanting everything to be all right, wanting _Dean_ to be all right.

"I'm fine, Sam," he said, even as a thin sheen of sweat broke out on his face from the effort of sitting up. "Honest. Would I lie to my little brother?"

"Absolutely."

Well, yeah, of course he would, if it meant keeping Sam safe, alive, and around to tease for another fifty or sixty years. What else was a big brother supposed to do?

But he took in the lines of fatigue and strain on Sam's face, the way his shoulders had crept up around his ears again, the tapping of his fingers on the edge of the laptop, and Dean figured he'd better play nice.

He closed his eyes briefly and ran a hand over his stubbled, sweating face. "Gee, Sammy, I'm wounded by your lack of faith. But if that's the way you want it…" He started ticking names off on his fingers. "Um, okay, Ginny got me into bed last night, clever woman, can't say I blame her. Lissa the Goth Chick, well, hey, I'd be happy to marry her for her cooking if nothing else. Then there's James Bond Junior, aka Ian, and Angie, who really needs to eat more of Lissa's cooking, and of course, then we come to Jason, the Non-Believer in our little group, and Sammy, I sure hope you didn't scare that poor son of a bitch to death." He looked up at Sam, gave him a crooked smile and added, "How's that? Do I pass?"

Up until that point, he hadn't even been sure Sam was breathing.

"Oh, yeah," Sam said, blinking rapidly, giving him a wide, goofy grin. Breathing deeply.

"See?" He grinned back, his various aches and pains receding at the sight of a giddy Sam. "Everything's cool," he went on, feeling a little giddy as well. "Now, can we get on with this? We've got some bones to find, Sammy. Let's get to work."

xxxxx

They made their way downstairs, with Sam hovering and trying not to, and Dean trying to hang onto his temper. His good mood hadn't lasted long. He knew he wasn't mad at Sam, not really, but the fact that Sam had to help him get dressed again and now get him down the stairs just completely pissed him off. But four steps later his mind wandered back to the drive to Nebraska, and Sam sick with worry, always there to steady him when the fatigue caught up, to haul his sorry ass in and out of the car. He thought of waking up, twice, now, from the dark and the cold, with only Sam's arms there to hold him, to be Dean's only anchor in a reality that had suddenly fallen away beneath his feet. So when Sam, behind and slightly to one side of him, put a careful hand on his shoulder when he faltered for a moment, Dean didn't shake his little brother off with an annoyed growl, as he normally would have

He felt Sam's quick twitch of astonishment. But Sam just tightened his grip a little, and if Dean was pale, trembling, and sweating by the time they reached the bottom, Sam didn't mention it. Sam let go but kept close as they found the rest of their merry band – except for Jason, unsurprisingly – assembled as usual in the dining room, with breakfast in progress amidst numerous piles of paper and notes, and a precariously balanced laptop threatened by orange juice and pancake syrup.

A chorus of "good morning" greetings met them, Ian waving a fork because his mouth was full, and Dean had the feeling everyone was doing their best not to stare too much at him. He thought he saw Sam give Ginny a quick glance and a slight nod, but he might have been imagining things. When Sam pulled out a chair for him, he scowled, but sat down carefully, one arm pressed tight against his ribs and trying not to be too obvious about it.

"How do you feel this morning, sweetie?" Ginny at once passed him some toast. "Better than you look, I hope."

"Oh, jeez, Ginny, thanks," Dean said, as he began to slather a piece of toast with strawberry jam. "Last night you want to get me in bed, and now you're implying I look like road kill or something."

Munching, he ignored Sam's smirk. He didn't even have to look at him to know it was there. _Smartass. _

"If the shoe fits, honey." She winked at him. "Coffee?"

He sighed, leaning an elbow on the table to help prop his head. "Oh, yes, please. Lots."

Ian said, in wistful reminiscing, "I broke a rib once playing football – that's soccer to you Yanks – at school. Hurt like blazes. Then there was the dislocated shoulder, and the mild concussion, and a couple of broken fingers. Oh, those were the days."

"Miss those grand sweat-filled locker room times with the jocks, do you?" Angie asked.

Dean traded a wry grin with Sam. Somehow he didn't think they'd be sharing war wound stories involving demons and wendigos anytime soon.

"Here you go, Dean. Sam." Lissa handed him a cup of coffee, and as he smiled his thanks she passed another cup to his brother.

"Not on your life," Ian was answering Angie. "Those lads were crazy." He turned back to Dean. "Sorry to hear about the ribs. I seem to remember that it hurt to do just about anything. Like breathing, for example."

"It's not so bad," he said, cradling the warm cup in his hands. "Really."

"Well, Ginny's right," Ian said cheerfully. "You look bloody awful."

"Oh, shut up," he grumbled in mock anger, as though Ian were Sam. And that brought him up short. Before he allowed himself to pursue that odd line of thought any further, he drank off half the coffee and asked, "So, what have you college geniuses come up with? Anything new?" He looked around the paper-laden table. "What?" he added, when no one spoke up. "You guys _have_ been working on this, right?"

"We've been a little…pre-occupied, sweetie," Ginny said, patting one of his hands. "But we did take a bit of time to work on some research because Sam said you'd be too stubborn to stop now."

"Excuses, excuses," he muttered, embarrassed by the attention. Again.

Sam just grinned at him.

"All right, children," Ginny said briskly, getting back to business. "Let's show Dean and Sam how brilliant we all are. Angie, why don't you start?"

"Okay, let's see…" She moved some dishes to one side to clear space for her notes, riffling through them for a moment and pulling out a couple of pages. "Well, I got into some more local history records, and the Thorntons do show up quite a bit as they have been a rather prominent family in the area, ever since the early 1800s. I know you've read over all the stuff we'd already found, so I tried to get deeper and look for the...weird angle, I guess." She shrugged, smiling wryly. "Death records have taken on a whole new meaning in the last week, I'll say that. Anyway, beyond what we had, honestly, I just don't think there's anything here. Nothing jumped out at me as being...off, but here's what I've got." Looking over at Dean she added, "Sorry, that sounds sort of wishy-washy, doesn't it?"

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Let's hear what you found out. Sometimes the smallest details are the important ones."

She glanced down at the notepad in front of her, twirling a pencil. "Well, we stuck with Thornton family members, like you suggested. I found several women, mostly in the nineteenth century, who died in childbirth. Quite a few children died young, under the age of ten, but the records don't always say of what. Many of the men, immediate family and near relatives, cousins, uncles, whatever, were killed in the Civil War, but I suppose that doesn't work, because they died far from home…"

Dean listened with half an ear as Angie went on with her recitation of the facts she'd gleaned, slouched a bit in his chair, and let his mind wander. Into a brief pause, with the only sound that of rustling paper, he interjected, idly, "It's a woman."

When dead quiet fell, he straightened and met five pairs of staring eyes. "What?" he said, baffled and suddenly self-conscious. "Sam, what?" He looked at his brother.

Sam's head tipped to one side, and he said, carefully, "How do you know that, Dean? It didn't even have a shape when we saw it -- it was just a vague apparition."

It could have been just the two of them in the room as they shared a look. Sam wasn't grinning now, and Dean could hear the sudden tension in his voice. And hear just what he _wasn't _saying out loud. _What the fuck, Dean? _

Dean could only shrug a helpless shoulder in answer to that, not sure himself, and tried to ignore the chill that crept down his spine. "Just a feeling, Sammy, that's all. Really."

The sound of a clearing throat reminded him that they were not alone. Dean shifted his attention to Ginny, who was giving him the same kind of once-over he'd just received from Sam. He had a sneaking suspicion that they were somehow ganging up on him behind his back.

"What?" he said again, not caring how ticked off he sounded.

She folded her hands in front of her on the table and shook her head. "Nothing. I was just thinking that if you believe our spirit is female, we should concentrate our efforts on the women in the family. You've shown pretty good instincts so far. I'm willing to trust them."

"Uh, thanks," he said, shoving his uncomfortable gut feelings aside. Then he added, dryly, "Apart from my good instincts to get in the way of flying furniture, that is."

"Oh, you couldn't help it, sweetie. That's just the way your brain is hard-wired."

Not sure whether he'd been insulted or complimented, Dean settled on giving her a raised eyebrow look of deadpan innocence. She rolled her eyes back at him, not fooled for a minute. Oh, yeah, she and Sam had definitely been talking…

"So what do you think?" Lissa asked, breaking up the moment. "From what Angie found, it doesn't sound like there's a woman in the family who even _has_ a reason to come back and haunt the house. I mean, don't ghosts usually come back because they're mad? Because they died a horrible, violent death and they want revenge or something? This family, it's all so…so damn normal!"

"Other than the fact that a ghost is haunting the quaint ancestral home," Ian said. "Completely normal."

"Well, yeah…"

"It might not be a reason we understand," Sam said. "An emotion, a motive, whatever, that's powerful enough to keep them here, connected with their former life – it could be guilt as well as anger, love as much as hate." He shrugged. "We just don't know enough yet."

Dean took a deep mental breath. Sam was so not going to like this. "We're gonna have to go back in the house, Sam."

He caught another quick glance between Sam and Ginny. _Dammit, what have those two been talking about? I am really gonna have to sit Sam down and find out. _

Then Sam turned to him, and his brother's face was more resigned than angry, his mouth a thin line. "I thought you might say that," Sam said. "I just don't know how you think we can. This thing, it, she, whatever, has attacked people twice now, and why should the next time be any different if we go in again?"

"We'll figure something out, dude," he said, giving Sam's words from the night before back to him. And he was more than a little relieved that he remembered them. "We always do."

Dean thought Sam really wanted to launch into a long argument, possibly repeating his list of uncomplimentary epithets relating to Dean's recent behavior, but he kept his mouth shut, giving Dean a glare that promised him more would be said in private.

The others were looking at him with expressions that varied on the theme of "Are you crazy?" Then they all started talking at once – until Ginny whistled loudly through her teeth.

As the noise subsided, she asked, calmly, "Why do you need to go back inside, Dean? Is it really worth the risk?"

"You guys have done a good job," he said, nodding at Angie, "chasing down this stuff, but I don't think we're gonna find what we're looking for in the public records or newspapers. I think we need to get our hands on some Thornton family papers. Old bibles, journals, notebooks, whatever. Sam and I figured it was probably some dark family secret, and we're not likely to run across that in public documents." Focusing on Ginny again, he said, "When Emma died, and the museum took over, did they remove anything like that? Or find anything and leave it? What about Emma's lawyers? Maybe we should be looking for safety deposit boxes or something."

"Hm," Ginny said, thoughtful, nodding in agreement. "You could be on the right track there, sweetie. The house is intact, the museum hasn't removed anything, and I believe aside from money bequests, Emma just left some jewelry to her friends. If there were any kind of personal family records, they'd still be in the house. The safety deposit box angle, well, not much we can do about that, I gather, without some sort of court order. Maybe the museum director can talk to Emma's lawyer."

"Hey, Dean," said Angie, tossing her pencil down on her notepad in mock self-disgust, "maybe you should be the one working on an advanced history degree."

"Nah." He smiled, surprised. "Sammy's the scholar in the family."

"Don't sell yourself short."

"Uh, thanks," he said, awkwardly. What was it about these people that they managed to put him off balance and on the verge of embarrassment? He was too old to blush…He cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes, finally taking notice of a headache. Turning to the architecture student, he began, "Ian, this might sound weird –"

"Nothing can sound weird at this point, mate."

Grins all around at that, Dean saw, and even Sam cracked a smile.

"Okay, how about this, then…In all those house plans you had, have you noticed anything funky about the dimensions in any rooms? Could something have been built and then say, bricked over, or covered up?"

"What, like a secret passage or a hidden room?" Ian asked, intrigued.

"Uh huh. Sam and I were talking it over…um, whatever day that was, sorry." He put a hand to his temple and started kneading. He didn't see it, but he felt it – _that_ look from Sam.

"Day before yesterday," Sam said quietly. "We thought that since most likely it was a family member, and the spirit was concentrated in the house, that maybe they not only died there but it's possible they were buried there as well."

Sounds of disgust rose from around the table.

"A hidden corpse? That's awful," said Lissa. "Poor thing. No wonder she's angry. I'd come back and haunt my family, too."

"Just an idea," said Sam. "I did say 'maybe' and 'possible.' Ian, what do you think? Anything in your notes to indicate something like that?"

Ian leaned back in his chair to study the ceiling. "I'll have to go over everything again, now that I know what I'm looking for. But, yeah, could be. Old cellar, plenty of space to carve out a room and wall it up again. Crawlspaces, too, I guess. Hm. Lots of creepy possibilities."

"Thank you, Edgar Allan Poe," Angie said.

Then Dean was resting his head in his hands because the room had begun to spin, and Sam's voice floated over from very far away even though he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder.

"Dean? You all right?"

He opened his eyes enough to see Sam crouched beside his chair, peering up at him under those flopping bangs, and all he could whisper was, "Sammy, you need a haircut."

"Not like yours, I don't," Sam said, trying for a lightness that didn't reach his eyes. "I think you need to go back to bed, Dean."

He was dimly aware of Ginny, quietly herding the others out of the room, and for that he was grateful; he'd have to take her out for a ride in the Impala or something, go to a drive-in movie…

"Dean?" Sam's hand hadn't left his shoulder yet.

"Yeah, Sammy, give me a minute." He took a deep breath, fighting off a wave of dizziness. "I'm okay."

"No, you're not. You just went white as a sheet, and," Sam's other hand went to Dean's forehead, "you're all cold and clammy. Jesus, Dean," he said, exasperated. "There should be a twelve-step program for people like you. 'Hello, my name is Dean, I'm an idiot, and I'm in pain,' but that would be too easy, wouldn't it?"

"I just need more coffee," he wheedled. "C'mon, Sam, all I've done is sleep, don't wanna sleep anymore…" _I don't want to dream anymore. I don't want to wake up and not know where I am. _"Sam," he said, sounding desperate to his own ears. "I'm all right, and I'm not tired, dammit."

"Quit whining." Sam stood and pulled Dean up with him.

"Not whining." _Yeah, okay, that sounded like whining. _"And I'm not going back to bed. Oh…" He swayed for a moment as his head tried to make sense of this new position. "If I hurl, it's gonna be on you," he said faintly, closing his eyes.

"Okay, okay, I've got you, just take it slow…"

xxxxx

Sam actually got his brother back into bed with only a minimum of fuss – for Dean, that is – most of the protest revolving around the prospect of taking more pain pills. But he used his ace-in-the-hole argument that if Dean couldn't move more easily, there was no way Sam would go into the Thornton house with him. ("If I can't rely on you to watch my back, Dean…" And though he felt terrible using Dean's deeply ingrained protective streak against him, especially after seeing Dean go even paler than he thought possible, it worked.)

"You are such a mean, sneaky bastard, Sam Winchester," he murmured to himself as he shut the door quietly behind him, leaving Dean to drift off. ("I don't need a damn babysitter, Sam! Park it somewhere else!") With their father's journal and the laptop under one arm, he decided to go work in the kitchen. If they were really set on going back into the house, they would need some sort of protection spell, or maybe a binding charm…anything to keep the spirit away or under wraps while they searched the place.

And since he didn't think there was any way to talk Dean out of going in, he'd just have to make sure to keep his brother as safe as he could. He sighed. Like _that _was working so well…But short of loading an unconscious Dean into the backseat of the Impala and driving away, leaving Charleston behind in their rearview mirror, he figured there was little chance of Dean not finishing the job. He was very much his father's son in that regard.

Stupid, stubborn idiot.

Sam had only gone a few steps when he heard a hesitant voice saying his name. Turning around in the hallway, he saw a disheveled and uneasy Jason McNeil standing there. The other man looked ready to bolt at the slightest harsh word, and Sam found himself rooted to the floor in shame and regret.

"Jason," he said.

"Sam, um, I just wanted to say, um…" He trailed off, fidgeting, crossed his arms over his chest, and blurted in a rush, "I'm really sorry about your brother. I never meant to get anybody hurt, I mean, he saved my ass, you're right, but all I could think about was going in the house and proving you guys wrong. I _wanted _you to be wrong…"

"Jason," Sam said, interrupting the rambling apology, "it's all right." He took in the student's grubby appearance – he looked like he'd slept in his clothes, if he'd even slept; he was unshaven and his eyes were dark and bruised. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to come after you like that in the hospital, really. I was just…worried about Dean, and I took it out on you. Sorry."

"No, no, I understand…" He uncrossed his arms, shoved his hands in his pockets, and had trouble looking at Sam. "You see, I…kind of overheard you talking to Ginny last night. I didn't mean to, I was only on my way to get some supper, I thought everybody was done, and I didn't know you were there right away…So when I heard you say how badly…Dean had been hurt, before, I guess I understood why you got mad at me, for putting your brother back in the hospital again." He finally looked up to meet Sam's eyes, taking a deep breath and asking hesitantly, "How's Dean doing? He looked...pretty awful." Another deep breath and a shake of his head. "God, that should've been me. I can't believe he did that," he added wonderingly.

"Oh, that's just Dean," Sam said, trying to smile. "He usually just sticks to saving animals and small children – I guess he made an exception in your case. But," Sam swallowed, and went on, making himself believe it, "he's tough. He'll be okay."

Jason gave him a half-hearted smile. "Tell Dean 'thanks,' for me, okay? And 'sorry,' while you're at it."

"Why not tell him yourself when he wakes up?"

Shaking his head, Jason said, "Can't. I'm leaving. This is more than I signed on for, Sam, and it's my fault your brother got hurt. Besides, all this shit…" He made a helpless gesture with his hands. "It's totally screwing up my whole concept of reality, you know? And I don't think I can handle that. The world's scary enough, and I don't need to know more than what I've already seen…This supernatural crap just isn't for me. I've been trained as a scientist, Sam. I deal with facts, dates, numbers, and hard evidence. Well…" He shrugged tiredly. "I'm off to tell Ginny, and then I'm headed back to the safe confines and ivory towers of academia."

"Jason, I hope I didn't –"

"No, no, it wasn't you," he cut in. "I don't blame you at all for wanting to kick my ass the other night. You probably still do. No, I meant what I said. Ghosts, monsters in the closet, bogeymen – I'll leave 'em to you."

Sam just nodded, and put out his hand. "Good luck. And no hard feelings?"

"None at all. Thanks, Sam. You guys take care of yourselves, all right?"

"Sure, Jason. Thanks. Bye." He turned and watched Jason disappear down the stairs, grateful for getting the chance to apologize to the other man, but also feeling a sense of guilty relief that he was leaving.

xxxxx

Having settled down in the kitchen and gotten to work, Sam lost himself in the research and lost track of time. When he finally surfaced because his stomach was rumbling, and noticed that it was three hours later, he cursed silently, dropped what he was doing, and made a beeline up the stairs for their room.

He quietly opened the door and eased himself inside so as not to wake Dean. However…

No Dean. Just an empty bed and rumpled blankets.

The bathroom door was wide open, and no Dean in there, either.

_Oh, shit. He wouldn't. Not the Thornton house. He wouldn't have gone back inside without me… Would he? Is that why he wanted me gone? Shit._

Sam cursed again, out loud this time, panic rising, and he clattered back down the stairs. He searched quickly through the first floor, and came across Ginny in the front living room, working intently on her laptop.

"Ginny," he said, panting slightly, leaning through the doorway, "have you –"

"Dean's in the backyard, hon," she answered, without even looking up.

"Uh, yeah," he said, his frantic heart rate steadying somewhat at her words. "Thanks."

"Take an afghan with you, Sam. He looked a little chilled when he came by." Now she did look up, smiling. "We'll take care of him whether he wants us to or not, okay?"

Sam grinned. "It helps when he's outnumbered." He almost went for the pink and cream flowered afghan, if only to enjoy the look of horror that would cross Dean's face, but common sense won out and he grabbed the plain blue one off the couch instead. "Thanks, Ginny," he said over his shoulder on his way out.

She tossed him a wave as she went back to work.

He found his brother, asleep, in one of the lawn chairs where they had shared turkey sandwiches and a few barbed words two days earlier. Though the day was mild and sunny, Sam could see that Ginny was right; Dean definitely looked cold. He had put Sam's borrowed green hoodie on over the two shirts he was already wearing, and the pallor of his drawn features was even more evident out here in the bright sunshine. Despite all the sleep he was supposedly getting, he still looked far from rested.

Sam spread the blanket over Dean's legs and drew it up carefully around his torso. Sitting down in the other lawn chair, he looked at his brother lying there, and despite his residual panic, he had to smile. _Oh, for a camera. _His ass-kicking, demon-hunting, often dangerously scary brother was sleeping in a lawn chair, partially wrapped in a blanket; and, curled up quite comfortably on his chest, was a black cat. One delicate paw stretched out and rested just under Dean's chin. As if aware of Sam's scrutiny, the cat slowly opened an emerald green eye and stared unblinkingly at him for a long moment. Disinterested, or considering Sam to be harmless, it went back to its nap.

When Dean stirred slightly, and got one green eye open just enough to see him, Sam found the resemblance to the cat rather eerily disconcerting. Possibly Dean decided as well that Sam was harmless, or merely uninteresting, because the eye shut again.

"Didn't know you liked cats," Sam said.

"Can't stand 'em," Dean mumbled, one hand absently stroking the black fur.

Sam could hear the rumble of its purr starting up, and he grinned again. "Where'd it come from?"

"Don't know. Damn thing just showed up and fell asleep on me." Dean's fingers were now rubbing the blissed-out cat gently behind the ears. "Isn't there some rule about not moving when there's a cat sleeping on you?"

"You just made that up."

"No, really, they're dangerous if you move."

"You're thinking of wasps, bees, whatever."

"No, I'm sure it's cats…"

"This is a ridiculous conversation." Sam leaned forward and reached out with one long arm to give Dean a poke, saying, "Let's get back to what it is you think you're doing out here?"

"I fell asleep, Sam."

"I _left _you asleep, Dean. Why'd you come out here?"

Dean sighed and opened both eyes. "I was tired of that room, Sammy. Just needed some air. I'm okay, so quit worrying."

"Don't tell me not to worry. If I want to worry," his voice rising, "I'll damn well worry, all right? And you're not okay."

Pointedly ignoring Sam's rant, Dean said, "Ginny ratted on me, didn't she?"

"She's worried, too. I told her she was wasting her time."

"I bet she listens about as well as you do, huh?" Dean's other hand, the one not occupied with the cat, plucked at the blanket covering his legs. "Playing nursemaid again, Sammy?"

"Ginny said you looked cold," Sam said, defensively, crossing his arms. But he noticed that Dean hadn't pushed the blanket aside yet.

"Oh, yeah, she's got me makin' you lunch, and you bringin' me blankets. Sneaky, I'll give her that. However, I can appreciate that quality in a woman…"

Sam was eyeing the cat. "That animal is going to start drooling any second. And I bet it has fleas."

"She does not!" said Dean, suddenly indignant.

"She?"

"Well, yeah, what girl wouldn't throw herself on me? Chicks, cats, whatever."

"This is getting weirder by the minute," Sam said. "Have you been taking some medication that I'm not aware of?"

"Uh, there was this tea Lissa brought me. Some herbal stuff, tasted like twigs. Had one swallow and dumped the rest. You don't think she spiked it, do ya?" He raised an innocent, yet hopeful, eyebrow. "The chicken noodle soup was good, though," he added.

"Tea? Soup? Blankets? Dude, are you pampered, or what?"

Dean shrugged. "Chicks, Sammy. What can I say? They can't help it."

"Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, Dean."

Sam had to hide the grin that was threatening to split his face. Superiority of numbers. That seemed to be the key. Sam decided that he liked the idea of allies. Come to think of it, he _had_ seen Lissa in the kitchen, but had been too wrapped up in his notes to pay much attention to what she'd been doing. _Huh. Tea and soup._ He'd have to do something really nice for Ginny and the others…

"So," Dean said, his hand stilling in the cat's fur. "What'd you come up with, college boy? Find anything in Dad's journal? Binding spell? Ritual protection? Something we can use on this bitch to get us in and out of there without getting our asses kicked?"

_Right, _Sam thought wearily. _Back to work. Can't forget the hunting, can we?_

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Well, yeah, I think so," he said reluctantly. He'd really been hoping to tell Dean there wasn't a damn thing they could do, not like that would've stopped his brother, but it might've been worth a shot…"I think we have to go with a binding spell. We need to trap it long enough so we have time to search the house."

"I'm hearing a 'but' somewhere in there, Sammy."

Sam grimaced. "This is where it gets problematic. We need to do the binding while the spirit is physically present, and that means we'll have to do it fast. So we'll probably be dodging furniture while we're reading the spell."

"You read, I'll distract and dodge. No problem."

The cat abruptly leaped off of Dean's chest, eliciting a grunt and a curse from Dean, and they watched it take off across the yard to disappear under some bushes. Dean rubbed at his bruised chest, his mouth twisted in pain.

Sam studied him critically. "Yeah, I can see that you're up for distracting and dodging. Maybe in a week or two. There's no hurry on this, those guys are staying out of the house, and as long as nobody's in there, nobody's getting hurt."

"I don't know, Sam," Dean said slowly, his gaze going glassy and unfocused. "Something about this…I don't know. Just feels like time's running out."

Sam leaned forward, one hand reaching out to grasp Dean's arm. "What do you mean?" he asked, urgently, a sudden fear churning in his stomach. _Damn. Those twisty snakes found their way back. _He swallowed. "Running out of time, how? For what…or who?" _("A couple of weeks, at most maybe a month…")_ He gave Dean a slight shake. "Dean?"

"Huh?" Dean blinked, and Sam watched as his eyes regained awareness. "Shit, Sammy, I don't know." Sam saw a shudder course through him. "You're the one who's supposed to get the freaky vibes."

"Maybe you're just a late bloomer. Or I'm rubbing off on you," Sam said, trying to get his stomach back where it belonged as he let go of Dean's arm.

"Or maybe it's just those damn pills you conned me into taking," Dean grumbled, sounding more like himself. "So, what about this spell?"

Seeing Dean trying to repress yet another shiver, Sam stood up and said, "All right, let's take this inside. Besides, no one brought _me _soup for lunch, and I'm getting hungry."

"Yeah, growing boy like you," Dean said, teeth practically chattering. He reached down to pull the blanket away, grunted and brought the action up short. "Sammy," he said quietly, as though he were ashamed, "give me a hand, huh?"

"Sure," Sam said, just as quiet. "Come on." He tossed the blanket on the other chair and with a careful arm around his brother's waist, slowly levered him upright and onto his feet. Letting go only when he was sure Dean had his balance, he gathered up the discarded blanket and stuck close as they walked back into the house.

"Hey," he said. "I forgot to tell you. Jason's leaving."

"Aw, Sam, you _did_ scare the hell out of the poor guy," Dean snickered.

Sam gave the back of Dean's head a flick with his finger and ignored the outraged yelp. "Nope, not me. It was our friendly spirit. Seems it, she, whatever, doesn't fit into his view of reality so he's going back to the university. He also said to tell you he was sorry, and thanks for saving his ass."

"Huh. How about that. The Hardy Boys triumph over the Non-Believer. Now we just have to take care of the dead bitch."

"Yeah, that's all," Sam said, holding the back door open. "Piece of cake, we can do it in our sleep, blah, blah, uh huh."

"Haven't met a ghost yet we can't take, Sammy. This dead chick is gonna be toast. She's fucked with me enough, and I'm lookin' forward to seein' her go up in flames."

"Yeah," Sam said, briefly closing his eyes to yet again see Dean crushed and motionless against the door of the Thornton house. "I am too."

Inside, Dean hung out in the kitchen while Sam dug around for some lunch. He almost felt guilty for their current living situation. Free room and board, and thanks to Ginny, no hospital bills…But how often did they catch a break like this? Okay, yeah, not much of a break, with Dean hurting, but it would've been a hell of a lot worse on their own. Just having Ginny and the students around made him feel better; he liked them, and he could tell that Dean did, too. It was rare to see his brother this open with other people, and it was a side Sam wished Dean could show more often.

They spent the rest of the afternoon kicking around the house, making a shopping list of what they'd need for the spell or just general replenishment of supplies, like bullets and…other more unusual ammunition. At one point they were in the living room, laughing hysterically, as they happened to catch part of the original _Night of the Living Dead_ while flipping around on the television. Drawn by the sound, Angie wandered in to join them on the couch.

"Oh, this is so gross," she moaned from behind a pillow, several minutes later.

"Yeah, and it's only a movie," Dean intoned. Then grinned and said, "Ouch!" when Angie smacked him lightly with the pillow. "You should see the real thing," he added. "Even worse."

"No thanks," she said firmly, eyes shut. "I'll stick with dry history tomes and libraries and occasional scary forays into the computer lab."

"Well, you'll never get to join on as the plucky sidekick with an attitude like that."

"You've got Sam," she said, "you don't need me. Can't I just be the girl who does the research and makes photocopies and irons your capes back at the secret hide-out?"

"You hear that, Sam?" Dean grinned again. "You're my sidekick."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, thanks, Obi-Wan."

Eyes open again, Angie caught a particularly gruesome scene and said, "Okay, that's it, this is just too disgusting. I'm outta here. I'll leave you superheroes to discuss and compare zombie-slaying methods on your own."

"Bye," Dean called over his shoulder as she tossed the pillow at him on her way out.

"Later," she yelled back.

They finished the movie, still laughing and mouthing all the dialogue.

"Oh, dude," Dean gasped, doubled over on the couch, "laughing really hurts."

"Yeah, I bet." Sam smiled. _But it sure sounds good to hear you do it. _

Then Sam spent the next couple of hours slouched back on the couch watching _The Mummy _re-make with the sound turned low, and keeping an eye on his brother, who had fallen asleep beside him. Covered up with a pink and cream flowered afghan.

xxxxx

It was during supper that night when Ginny broke the news about Jason's leaving. Since Dean and Sam already knew, Dean just watched the reaction of the others. After a moment of only slightly stunned silence, the three students simultaneously pointed fingers at Sam, everyone started laughing, and he protested in useless denial.

As the laughter died down, Ginny just shrugged and said, "He simply decided the situation here was untenable, and he was going back to resume his studies at school. It's too bad, but sometimes you do lose people during the course of a dig, or a research project, so let's wish him the best of luck."

"Not surprised he left," said Lissa. "Surprised it took him two days to do it, though."

"I think…he just needed the time to work some things out in his own mind," Ginny said. "He felt terrible about what happened the other night. It shook him rather badly."

"He saw something he wasn't prepared for," Sam said quietly, "and it didn't…fit."

"Fit what?" asked Ian. "His take on reality? Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but it didn't exactly fit mine, either, but isn't that why we're here? To learn, to keep an open mind – oh, I don't know. You know what I mean."

"Yes, very articulate there, Ian," Angie said. "But I know what you mean."

As they finished off the pizza and beer, with Dean grumbling because Sam wouldn't let him have any of the latter along with his pain meds, conversation naturally turned back to the problem of the Thornton ghost.

Dean noticed somewhat uneasily that everyone was calling the ghost "her" now. Like they believed him.

"So how are you guys going to get inside tomorrow? And more importantly, get out again?" Lissa gestured at them with her nearly empty beer bottle. "I hope you have a good plan cooked up."

"Yeah, fill us in," said Ian. "All the details."

"Uh…" Dean looked at Sam. _Now what? Spill the secrets of the family business? To outsiders? Dad would kill us. But shit, they're in the middle of it already…_

Sam gave him that "You're the older one, you decide" look, hesitated, and then nodded.

"Well," Dean began, reluctant. "Sam found something we think is going to take her out of action long enough for us to search the place."

"What about what Sam did the other night? Jason said he just threw salt over her," Ian commented.

"Yeah, well." Sam made a face. "That's only temporary. The rock salt just…slows them down, gets rid of them for a while."

"How do you get rid of them permanently, then?" Angie had scrounged out a pencil and her notebook.

Dean traded a helpless look with Sam. But he took a deep breath and answered. "With spirits, you have to salt and burn the bones. Since we don't have the body, and we don't even know who she is or where she's buried, we obviously can't do that yet. That's why we can only do it this way. We just need to…trap her, I guess, you'd say, for as long as we can so we can find out more about her. Then we find her bones and do the rest."

They were staring at him, mouths open, and he wondered what he'd said. He flicked a glance at Sam. Sam wasn't any help; he just shrugged.

"You guys…uh, you really know your stuff," Lissa said, finally. She shook her head. "I mean, I know Ginny called you because she said she knew someone who could…take care of this, but I guess I never really thought…about how to do it."

"That's how you do it," Dean said, shrugging as well, and wondering how many times since the first one, all those years ago, he _had_ done exactly that to put a restless spirit back where they belonged.

"Okay," said Ginny, "but what about tomorrow? If you aren't tossing salt on her, what _are _you boys planning to do? I have a feeling I'm not going to like it."

"Sam, you figured it out, you tell 'em."

"Right. Um, I don't suppose you're at all familiar with the concept of the circle as a means of protection? Yeah? Okay, what we're going to do is sort of…reverse that. Instead of _us_ being inside a circle, or conjuring something within it, we're going to make a salt circle and bind her into it."

"That sounds too easy, and I can't really believe I said that, but," Ginny frowned, "what's the catch?"

Sam sighed. "Well, she has to be actually in the room with us, and she needs to be...compelled to enter into the circle."

"So in the meantime, she could be throwing furniture at you?" Ginny was clearly not happy. "That's insane. She could do to you what she did before, and you could get hurt again, both of you. No, I won't allow you to do this."

"Ginny," Dean said, "we can do it. You know that _something _has to be done, and we know what we're doing. Trust us."

"Well, wait a little longer, then," she said. "Let's do more research. We'll work the safety deposit box angle, talk to Emma's lawyers. For heaven's sake, sweetie, you just got out of the hospital yesterday, and you're still more than a little rocky. You don't need to rush into this, Dean."

"That's the problem," he said, quietly, unease prickling down his spine as he leaned forward over the table to meet her troubled gaze. "I don't think we _do_ have time. Something's going on, I can't explain it, but trust me. We need to do this, and do it fast."

She just sat and studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment, and he tried not to squirm. He wondered if she had somehow picked up on his unspoken thought that it was _his_ time that was running out. Sam had. He had seen his brother's reaction out of the corner of his eye; saw the way Sam's body stiffened and how he nearly stopped breathing.

"All right, Dean," Ginny said at last. "Since you're determined to do this, and I can't order you not to, I'll ask you boys to be careful. But you promise me, if anything starts to go wrong, you get out of there. Or so help me, I'll have you on kitchen clean-up duty for the next month."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said.

xxxxx

It was just after ten when they finally went upstairs, Dean looking ragged around the edges, and when Sam shut the door of their room behind them, Dean pretty much refused to talk to him. Well, he talked, but not about what Sam wanted to talk about. He simply asked Sam if he wanted the bathroom first, and when Sam shook his head, he disappeared inside to brush his teeth and strip off his clothes.

He crawled into bed, pulled the covers up, and sighing, said, "Sammy, don't ask, 'cause I don't have the answers. Just a feeling, okay? So let's get it over with tomorrow, and everything'll be all right."

"Dean –"

"Go to sleep, Sam. It'll be okay." With that, he shut his eyes, and as Sam waited, his breathing slowed and evened, and Sam turned out the light.

He lay awake for far too long in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, and he saw nothing but images of Dean, giving himself up to the reaper to save Layla. _"I should've let it kill me. I was supposed to die anyway." Jesus, Dean. Running out of time. What the hell does that mean? Self-sacrifice, and a mountain of guilt. You bastard, I'm not going to let you die. I won't. _

Sam woke to a quiet moan. While his brain tried to catch up with his body, the moan came again, a little louder, and he quickly sat up, searching in the dark for his brother. Like the afternoon before, Dean was tossing and turning restlessly, caught in a dream. His head thrashed on the pillow, and he held his hands up in front of him as though fending something off. Sam swore, clumsily pulled free of his blankets and half fell as he moved to sit down on the edge of Dean's bed. There was just enough light from the street coming in through the half-open blinds to see the tight lines of pain on Dean's face and the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

"Dean, wake up." He caught a flailing hand before it could hit him in the face, and he leaned over to try to hold Dean down without hurting him. His head next to his brother's, he said, "Dean, it's Sam. Wake up. Everything's okay. Come on, wake up…"

Harsh panting breaths and another unintelligible moan were his only response. A few mumbled words followed suddenly by Sam's name clearly spoken in a terror-filled voice, and Dean lunged up off the bed, breaking Sam's hold. Sam caught him around the shoulders, and though Dean's eyes were open, they stared at nothing Sam could see, and he wasn't even sure his brother was awake.

"Sam, don't," Dean pleaded hoarsely. "Cold…Don't leave me here, Sam…" Then he looked right at Sam, right into his eyes, and Sam felt the hair rise on the back of his neck at the emptiness and despair he saw in those greenish-hazel depths.

"Dean?" Sam breathed. "Where are you?"

Then Dean's eyes closed and he soundlessly slumped forward against Sam. Shaken, Sam just held him. It was Nebraska all over again; it was the hospital…shit, that had been just yesterday. It was that strange ache in his throat of the tables having turned. It was Sam protecting Dean, driving away the fear in the dark, comforting against the nightmares…Dean had always done that for him, even more than their father. For as long as Sam could remember, Dean had made Sam feel safe, from everything. He had made it seem so easy, and all Sam felt was lost.

When the tremors running through his brother's body finally stopped, Sam eased Dean down again and pulled up the blankets. Though Dean had claimed to be cold, his t-shirt was now soaked with sweat, and strands of hair clung damply to his forehead. But he didn't seem feverish when Sam pressed a hand to his skin. God, maybe he should just dump Dean in the Impala and get them both the hell out of here…Not that the nightmares wouldn't find them both, wherever they went. He breathed a quiet exhausted sigh and felt his own eyelids drooping. So he reached out and grabbed a blanket from off his bed. Not sure if it was more for Dean's sake or his own, Sam settled down right where he was, with one hand resting on his brother, to let him know that Sam was there. And Sam would know that Dean was breathing, that his heart was beating, that he was all right.

xxxxx

Dean slept late the next morning, and still felt tired, waking with dark dreams at the edge of his memory. _So what else is new, _he thought with bitter humor, as he hauled his battered body out of bed. With only a mild amount of groaning and cursing, he actually managed to get himself in and out of the shower, shaved, and was just buttoning his shirt when Sam poked his head in the door.

Sam looked awful, Dean decided, sitting back down on the bed.

"Did you sleep at all?" Dean asked. Though he was sure he hadn't woken up fully during the night, some part of him, on some level, had known Sam was there, keeping watch over him. And that just wasn't how it was supposed to work. Sam shouldn't be watching over _him_. But that's all his little brother had been doing, since…the whole dying thing a month ago. _Almost_ dying. God, it had been so much harder on Sam than on him…

"Enough," came Sam's brief answer as he came in and dropped into one of the reading chairs by the windows. "You?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm good."

"No, you're not, Dean," Sam said, his voice harsh. "You're waking up from nightmares with chunks of your memory missing, you're sleeping a lot and you still look like absolute shit, and you're scaring the hell out me."

"Sammy –"

"Everybody's kinda freakin' out downstairs. _I'm _kinda freakin' out here, Dean, and supposedly we're the ones who know what we're doing." He turned to stare at Dean with haunted eyes. "We _do_ know what we're doing, right? Is there any reason why we just shouldn't get in the car and drive away right now? What aren't you telling me, Dean? What's going on with you?"

"Sammy, we have to do this, you know that." Dean broke off and couldn't meet Sam's gaze any more. He wasn't sure he could explain, even if he wanted to. And that feeling he had that he needed to see this through, one way or another, would not go away. But he had to keep it together for Sam, and he had to hold on for however long it took. But, damn, he was so tired – tired of hurting, tired of the nightmares that were stealing his strength and grinding him down…He shrugged. "We've got things covered as well as we can, but you know how shit can happen, how fast the plan can fall apart. But Sam, we're good at this. We'll get it done."

"You're avoiding the issue, as usual. Dammit, Dean…" Sam scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and through his hair, messing it up and suddenly looking like an exhausted ten-year-old. "I don't want to see you hurt anymore." His breath caught in his throat. "I'm so tired of seeing you get hurt."

Dean had to swallow a couple of times before he could say anything. "I don't know what's goin' on, Sam," he said in all honesty. "Not really. I just know we have to do this. Trust me, okay?"

He got a long steady stare. Dean could practically feel those eyes picking out every bruise on his torso beneath his shirt, and he tried to casually move his arm away from where it was pressed against his side.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam grimaced, not fooled at all. "You're hardly in any shape to be doing _anything_, much less this." Sighing, he said, "I trust you. But –" He leveled a finger at Dean. "You do anything at all remotely stupid, and I promise you, you _will_ regret it."

xxxxx

Sam took the shopping list. Dean grudgingly dug the keys to the Impala out of his jeans pocket, and with dire warnings about keeping his precious baby safe, sent Sam on his way. Both Lissa and Angie, wound up, nervous, and wanting to help, volunteered to go with him.

"Dude," Sam said on his way out the door. "Stay out of trouble. Get some rest."

"Yeah, yeah, all right," he grumped, watching them get in his car and take off. He wandered into the kitchen, found some orange juice and cereal for breakfast, and went to see what Ginny was up to.

She had several piles of paper spread out over the dining room table, and was chewing on the end of a pen as she read.

Dean sat down, and she looked up to smile at him.

"Hey, sweetie. What's up?"

"Not much. Sam went shopping. I'm bored." Then he shrugged. "Mostly I just want to get this over with," he admitted. "I've never been really good at the waiting part of the job."

"I can see that. Well, what can I do to distract you? Want to help me look through this stuff?" She gestured at her notes. "Kind of dry, but it might at least put you to sleep. You could really use some more rest, sweetie, I mean it."

"You sound like Sam. I swear you guys are gangin' up on me," he muttered. "Sometimes Sam is too damn smart for his own good."

She laughed. "Ah, you have uncovered our secret plot. Sam's just worried, Dean, and I can't say I blame him. You boys looked exhausted when you got here, and it hasn't gotten any better." Suddenly serious, she added, "And I can't tell you how sorry I am how all this has turned out. I never would've called you had I known…"

"No, it's not your fault. You did the right thing, calling us. We'll take care of her, don't worry. No one else is gonna get hurt. And then you can go on with your research, and make the museum people happy, and everything's fine. Okay?"

"Okay," she said, patting his hand. "Now if you don't want to read my endlessly fascinating notes, go take a nap or talk to Ian, bake cookies, go for a walk, _something._ But stay out of trouble."

Oh, yeah, Sam all over again.

"Yeah, okay, Professor." He got up, just avoiding the swat she aimed at him. "I'll be good."

So he wound up throwing in some laundry, and while that was tumbling through the dryer, he went back to their room and got out the weapons bag. He sat on the bed, set the guns out neatly, and went about methodically breaking them down and cleaning them all. It was familiar and soothing, something he could do drunk and blindfolded in the dark.

When a knock came at the closed door sometime later, he answered absently, and he looked up to see Sam, a bag in each hand, followed by Angie and Lissa. The two women stopped short at the sight of all the guns spread out on the bed, and at him, holding one casually in his hand.

He put it down with the others, and said, "So, how do you like my car?"

"It's way cool," said Angie. "My little brothers would be so jealous."

"Damn right they would," he agreed. "Sam. Get everything?"

"Uh huh." He set the bags down and started to rummage in one. "Angie, it was your idea, where'd you put 'em?"

"This one, I think." She searched through the other bag, and pulled out a package, then handed it to Dean. "Here. We thought you could use these."

His eyebrows went up as he opened the plastic bag. Heat packs.

_Crap, they're all in on it. _

At a momentary loss for words, touched by such concern from people he'd barely gotten to know, Dean looked up at her and said, awkwardly, "Um, thanks. That'll feel good."

Sam grinned at his discomfiture. Dean glared back, but couldn't say what he really wanted to with Lissa and Angie in the room.

"Well, I guess we'll leave you to finish up." Lissa gestured at the weaponry. "Let us know if there's anything else we can do, okay?"

"Sure," Sam said, still grinning. "Thanks." He partially closed the door behind them as they left, and turned back to Dean.

"Oh, cut it out," Dean grumbled.

"Sorry."

"No you're not. Smartass."

"We've got you outnumbered, Dean. You haven't got a chance, so just accept it."

"Very funny." But he couldn't help the smile that sneaked its way out. "So," he said, not daring to look at Sam, knowing that smirky grin was still there, "anything else we need to go over?"

Sam sighed, hilarity fading. "No, I think we've got it covered. As well as can be expected."

"All right then, we're good to go for tonight."

xxxxx

"Ladies first," Dean gestured.

"How about invalids first?" Sam shot back, even as he shouldered the bag of gear and walked up the steps.

"Ouch, Sammy," Dean said, right behind him. On the porch, he took time to give Ginny a nod from where she waited across the lawn.

She waved back, and then pointed at her wrist, the meaning clear.

Ian, Angie, and Lissa were on hand as well, standing by like a trio of back-up singers, anxious and trying not to show it.

"You ready?" he asked Sam.

"Hell, no, but that won't make any difference." Sam unlocked the door and pushed it open. "Let's get this over with."

The outcome of their previous visit was still in evidence, of course, as well as when Ginny and her group had had their breakfast disrupted. Broken glass crunched under their feet, the furniture lay tumbled about in all the wrong places, and an upended plant had left dirt scattered all over the Persian rug.

Dean pointed to the large chair overturned near the door. "Is that the one?" he asked Sam.

Sam swung around. "Oh, yeah, that's it. Why? Are you going to burn it?"

"Along with her bones, yeah, the thought did cross my mind," he admitted. "Okay, Sammy, you get started, and I'll keep an eye out for the crazy bitch."

Sam dropped the bag and said, "Give me a hand moving this rug first."

As Sam shoved the rest of the furniture off the rug, Dean started rolling it up. He bit his lip against the painful twinge it gave his ribs. Sammy would just look at him with that superior "I told you so" expression of his, and Dean just wasn't in the mood for a snarky younger brother at the moment.

Working quickly, they cleared enough space on the hardwood floor, and as Sam got out the necessary items to construct the circle, Dean paced the room with a loaded shotgun and the EMF detector.

It was close to sunset, and they had pulled the curtains, so the room grew dimmer by the minute. Dean kept throwing glances at Sam, checking on his progress, all the while keeping another eye on his makeshift detector. Last time, they had managed to walk nearly through the entire downstairs before the ghost took notice of them. He wondered if it was because they had been quiet; she had only appeared and started throwing stuff after Jason had shown up, banging doors and clumping around…He snorted. _How sensitive of her. Only shows up when the neighbors get noisy. Hm. There's a thought. Maybe if Sam and I are sneaky enough, she won't even know we're here. _

Wary, alert, he prowled around the salt circle Sam had just finished constructing. It was three feet in diameter, the salt a narrow trail broken in one spot, to be closed up when they'd gotten her inside. Sam was now on his knees outside, placing white candles in four places, corresponding to the cardinal compass points. Glancing now and again at a page in their father's battered journal, he began drawing symbols on the floor in chalk, working his way around the circle and careful not to smudge the lines or disturb the salt.

Sam looked up, frustration evident in his features. "This spell is really supposed to use something that belonged to the person, you know. It might be a little harder to get her to enter the circle without that."

"But we don't know who the hell she is. Yeah, Sammy, I know," Dean replied, keeping his voice low. "We'll give it our best shot, right? We talked this over already. Look, she might not even – " He cocked his head, frowning. "Do you smell that?"

"What?" Sam stood up, slowly, brushing chalk dust off his hands, and came to stand beside Dean. "No, nothing."

"I could swear…roses?" He shivered. Something about roses…"Is it colder?"

"I don't feel anything, Dean," Sam whispered back.

Dean spun around as…something…brushed lightly against him. "Sam! Hurry up! She's here!" He flicked a glance to the detector. _Red._ Showing it to Sam before slipping it into his pocket, he brought up the shotgun, scanning the room, but there was nothing to see.

Sam blanched, dropped to the floor, reaching for the journal and a flashlight. He scrambled over to the first candle, the one in the eastern quadrant, used a lighter from his pocket, and quickly began speaking the ancient Latin incantation.

Dean's hair stirred, but there was no wind. Another gentle caress, this one trailing down his cheek, and, before he could jerk his head away in disgust, along his jaw and mouth. _Shit. What the hell is she doing?_ Goose flesh rising, he backed away, looking for the supplies. _Salt._ Would that distract her or just piss her off? He only needed to keep her attention focused on him so Sam could finish the spell. But fuck it all; he couldn't even _see _her. He could sure as hell feel her, though. He grimaced and shuddered as what felt like icy fingers – or something – slid delicately across the back of his neck and around his throat. _Great. Crazy bitch has the hots for me. Well, I guess it's better than flying chairs and getting smashed into the wall…Maybe._

"Sam!" he hissed, looking over his shoulder. Sam just nodded, and kept reading; he was at the second candle now. Dean could feel a definite energy building in the air, a tension, like a summer storm, in those breathless seconds between the bolt of lightning and the crack of thunder.

His foot hit the bag. Sam had pitched the shaker can right on top, and he swiftly grabbed it, pried the lid off, and carefully maneuvered around Sam, keeping his brother behind him.

"Come on, sweetheart," he muttered. "If you're gonna try anything, I'm ready for you, just give me one more kinky little grope so I know where you are…"

He could see out of the corner of his eye that Sam had lit the third candle. But as his brother started the next part of the incantation, he felt a sickening jolt in his gut. He doubled over, dropping both saltshaker and shotgun; at the same time, he heard a thin wail rise out of the air near him. A wave of cold washed over him, and he turned his head to see a figure forming out of mist. He'd been right all along; it _was _a woman. _Well, that's good,_ he thought, a bit of hysteria creeping into his head – he'd hate to think a male spirit had just had its dead, cold hands all over him.

"Sam!" he gasped faintly.

Sam looked up, the Latin still flowing. His eyes widened at the sight of the materializing ghost. But he didn't stop, only slowed, and threw Dean an agonized glance before bending over the journal again. Dean knew if he quit reading now, they were screwed. Nothing worse than the backlash of building power, and the spirit would be twice as pissed.

But shit, why did he hurt so much? He was on his knees now, gasping for breath, his heart pounding crazily in his chest, and all he could do was watch helplessly as Sam finished the ritual. The air grew even colder, and the thin wail rose to a shriek. The figure was right in front of him, and he couldn't do a damn thing. She was nearly corporeal now, and she was fighting the spell.

The sudden pain was like a knife behind his eyes. He cried out, and pitched forward, his head striking the floor. _Oh shit, it's the spell. It's dragging me along with it. I'm getting trapped, the same as her. How the fuck did that happen? I'm not dead…Right? _Fire ran through his veins. His limbs jerked briefly in uncontrollable spasms. He remembered a basement, and lying in water, with the electricity pouring through him.

"Sam," he managed to choke out, not even sure Sam heard. "Stop." Hunched over, arms wrapped around his ribs, forehead pressed to the floor, he was aware of little except the all-consuming agony. Then he heard Sam, Latin forgotten, instead screaming Dean's name. He thought he heard a shotgun blast, too, but the agony that was ripping out his soul overrode all else, and he was pretty sure he was screaming right along with Sam.

Then he fell into darkness…

…And woke in a bright, sun-filled room that struck him as both familiar and strange at the same time. As he staggered to his feet, pain gone, a beautiful woman with raven hair and eyes as blue as a Kansas summer sky stood before him. He _knew_ her. He'd _seen_ her…in a dream.

She reached up to cup his face between her hands, to gaze at him with wonder. "Oh, my dearest," she whispered, "I knew you would come. I've been waiting, so long I have, and now you've come back to me." The blue eyes brimmed with tears. Then she drew his head down to bring his mouth to hers, and her slender arms moved to twine lovingly around his neck.

_This isn't real. She's not real._

But this was not an apparition of mist. She was warm, solid flesh as she leaned into him, and her lips were soft.

With a distant, fleeting thought that this was not exactly turning out as planned, Dean Winchester forgot everything as held her close in the circle of his arms, breathed in roses, and kissed those soft, welcoming lips hungrily with his own.

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sam screamed. Dean's name, over and over.

His brother had fallen in a crumpled, curled heap, his cries of pain silenced the instant the ghost of the woman vanished. Terrified and filled with a sickening dread, Sam struggled for control. He dropped the now-empty shotgun, but what effect it had had on her he didn't know. Though he wanted nothing more than to go to Dean's side, he forced himself to fall back on the relentless training drilled into him by their dad over too many years and too many hunts. With shaking hands, he finished off the ritual by sealing the circle with more salt; moving away, he shouted the last word of the binding spell in a voice gone hoarse from screaming his brother's name.

He fervently hoped it wasn't too late. Though only mere seconds had been lost between his reading of the final portion of the spell and the closing of the circle, he might've waited too long…

The ring of salt flared into blue flame, dancing a foot high in the air before settling down to a flicker an inch or so above the floor. The candles, too, now burned with a cold blue fire. The spell had worked.

But had it trapped the spirit? Or had the shotgun blast of rock salt torn her to shreds first?

He crawled over to Dean. With fear clawing at his throat he reached for Dean's shoulder and hip to gently turn him on his back. His brother's pale features looked even worse in the eerie blue light. Sam put a still-shaking hand on Dean's chest, and closed his eyes in sheer relief. Breath. Heartbeat. He swallowed a sob.

"Dean," he whispered. But Dean wasn't moving. He wasn't waking up.

_Oh, God, not again. _

Sam pulled off his jacket, folded it over and gently raised Dean's head to slide the jacket beneath him. Then he went through Dean's pockets, pretty sure he'd seen his brother put the EMF detector in one of them before hell broke loose. He came up with it, flicked it on. No little red lights glowed at all. He turned on his knees in a slow circle, and still nothing. She was gone, at least for now. They had a little bit of time…

He sat back, shoulders slumped, one hand finding its way to Dean's chest and just tried breathing for a moment. Not liking what he had to do next, but knowing it was why they had returned here in the first damn place, he pushed himself to his feet. With another look at Dean, Sam stumbled to the front door (and saw Dean pinned there, unmoving, silent) and yanked it open to yell out into the night.

"Ginny!" Her name emerged as a harsh, plaintive wail.

She was already in motion, running toward him, the others right behind her. Ian, with his long, football-playing legs, passed her and reached the steps first. Within seconds, they were all crowding inside, questions on their lips, in their wide eyes; but he couldn't say a word, only shake his head and gesture for them to come in. Ginny took Sam's arm and he led them forward. "Here," he said, and they followed him further into the sitting room – still in the dark. They stopped dead, finally able to get a clear view of the sight before them.

"Sam, we heard a gunshot –" Ginny started.

The crazy blue light from the circle still danced, the candles burned steady, and Dean lay nearby like an unstrung puppet on the floor, exactly as Sam had left him. Sam crossed the room to a floor lamp, fumbled for the switch, and suddenly a mundane yellow glow filled the corner.

Lissa and Angie, their initial shock over, had moved, and they were now both crouched beside Dean. Lissa's hand was on Dean's neck, and she looked up in obvious relief at the others, nodding. Ian stood above them, as though on guard, but carefully watching Sam; and Sam suddenly realized that they had believed the worst, seeing Dean lying there on the floor.

"Sam, honey." Ginny had followed him and reached out to grip his forearms. He saw her frightened gaze fall on Dean before focusing on him again. "What happened to Dean? Have you called for an ambulance?" She shook his arms when he didn't answer right away. "Sam?"

"We need to be quick about this," he said, feeling unreal and detached from it all. "I'm not sure how long the spell will hold her. Depends on how hard she fights it, or hell, even if it worked. Well, I know it worked, that's why it's blue, but whether or not she's trapped…I don't know, for sure, it all happened so damn fast. But we've got at least until the candles aren't burning blue. When you see the flames shift back to yellow, you'll know it's time to leave. Here," he handed her the EMF detector. "This'll give you another warning, it'll light up red."

"Sam! What about Dean?"

He was in shock, that must be it. _Well, snap out of it, Sammy, and get the job done. Isn't that what Dean would say?_

He tore his eyes away from his brother and looked down into Ginny's face, the worry and fear only visible in the tight line of her mouth. And in the tight grip on his arms.

"I don't know!" he suddenly shouted, startling them all. "Something screwed up. _I_ screwed up! But if we don't do this, and do it _now,_ it'll have been for nothing! And when Dean wakes up, finds out that I didn't do what we came in here for, he'll kill me!"

"Okay, Sam, okay." She let go of him, and stepped back, giving him room and time to collect himself. "Sam. Are _you _all right?"

He took a deep gulping breath, and then another one. "Yeah, _I'm_ just fine." It came out more bitter and savage than he expected. He suddenly thought he might throw up. "Sorry," he said, unconsciously seeking out Dean again, and trying to get his own head back in the game, back in the hunt. "Look, the sooner we get going, the sooner we can get the hell out of here. _Please." _

"Sam," she said again, gently. Her cell phone was already in her hand. "Do I need to call an ambulance?"

"No, no. They can't help. He has to stay here. It's safer if he stays here until we leave. When the binding starts to lose power." He couldn't seem to stop this babbling, but God, couldn't they _see? _"We have to work fast."

"All right," she said, probably not understanding but giving him the benefit of the doubt. Brisk and back in charge, she went on. "Sam, no arguing, you stay here with Dean. Ian, help Sam get Dean off this hard floor and on the couch."

Ian immediately leaned over to grasp Dean under the shoulders, and Sam found himself moving automatically, obeying the snap in Ginny's voice. Between them, they got Dean upright and carried over to the couch – temporarily shoved against a wall – careful to avoid the circle and the chalked symbols. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam decided it was a lot easier lifting Dean when he had help…They got him settled, and Dean lay there, quiet and far too still.

"The rest of us will split up," Ginny was saying. "Angie and Lissa, you two start in the library. Ian, check out the basement, and we'll meet up in the attic, if we have time. I'll try Emma's bedroom first. Anything that looks promising, just grab it. Family bibles, photo albums, diaries, any kind of documents relating to the house, you know what to look for. Go, let's get this done."

Orders issued, the troops moved out. With a wave at Sam, Ian loped off; the girls fussed over Dean for just a bit before heading for the library. All three of them turned on lights in their wake, and the house lost some of its unearthly appearance. Left with Ginny, Sam was not ungrateful when she wrapped him up in a brief hug. He clung to her for a moment, sniffed a couple of times, then reluctantly let go.

"Sorry," he said, again, wiping at his eyes. "But I should be the one to go look –"

"No, Sam," she said firmly. "You stay with your brother, and give a holler when that doohickey of yours gets in the red zone. We've been through the house more than you, before all this started, so we've got an edge there." Her voice softened. "And do you really think you could traipse around this place, snooping for Thornton family secrets, knowing Dean was down here?"

"No," he admitted, "you're right." He gave her a weary smile. "Don't take this the wrong way, Ginny, but I'm really starting to hate your house."

"I don't blame you. Okay, I'm off, Sam. We'll find something, don't you worry, and we'll get this figured out." She nodded at him, and as she passed Dean, she paused to bend down and brush his cheek with her fingers. Then she was gone, and Sam was alone with his brother.

He turned off the lamp again, wanting to see the blue fire in the dark, to know the instant it started to change, and snagged his jacket off the floor and shrugged into it. He perched on the couch next to Dean and pulled off a quilt draped there, an old patchwork piece of faded roses, and put it over his brother's unmoving form.

"I seem to be tucking you in a lot lately," he muttered, doing just that. "Come on, Dean, it's getting to be embarrassing. Quit doing this to me, okay?"

Unconscious, or something infinitely worse…The binding spell had had some effect on his brother, of that Sam was dreadfully sure – Dean had collapsed even as Sam had finished reading the final incantation. Sam had seen the woman's ghost, standing over his brother, and before picking up the rock salt-loaded shotgun, he'd been aware of little other than her wild eyes and streaming dark hair. He admitted to himself he'd probably made a mistake in firing at her; but he'd thought for sure that she'd been hurting Dean, and his emotions had taken over. He could think of nothing but stopping her.

"Idiot," he said, dropping his head in his hands. "All that planning, and I blow it. Stupid, Sam, stupid, stupid, stupid. Dean is so gonna kick my ass…" He lifted his head enough to study his brother's face. Still too thin, he thought, the cheekbones too prominent, and Dean's ridiculously long eyelashes were startlingly dark against his pale skin. "You hear that? Wake up and kick my ass for me. I deserve it."

But like those other times when Sam had begged Dean to wake up, to open his eyes, his brother remained silent and oblivious.

Sam got up and restlessly paced the small room, spending a few moments to pick up the discarded shotgun, John Winchester's journal, and the rest of their gear, stuffing it back in the duffel bag. Keeping an eye both on Dean and the candles burning blue on the floor, he retrieved the flashlight and did a rapid search while he waited for Ginny and the others. There wasn't much, really, to even look through – a couple of built-in bookcases (filled, it appeared, with the collected works of Danielle Steel and John Grisham), a small chest of drawers, and a pair of end tables. Coming up with nothing more interesting than some old dry cleaners' tickets and partially filled-in crossword puzzle books, he hoped the others were having better luck. It felt like they'd been gone for hours, but a quick glance at his watch made it all of twenty minutes. Just as he was about to yell out for a progress report, Lissa came in lugging a big cardboard box.

"Hey," she said, "Thought I'd dump this off with you. Oh, thanks," as Sam took it from her. "Angie and I found a bunch of old scrapbooks and albums, stuff like that, in the library." She looked over at Dean, and her voice went quiet. "How's he doing, Sam?"

Sam put the box down near the door. "No change," he said. "Still out like a light. He's probably just doing it to get out of digging through musty old boxes in the attic." He tried to smile, but judging from Lissa's reaction, it didn't work.

"I'm sorry, Sam," she said. She shook her head. "This is all way beyond anything I was expecting when the freakiness started around here. It was sort of a joke, at first, you know? Like kids playing haunted house, daring each other to go in. I wish we hadn't gotten you guys involved, it's been so awful for you both…"

"Hey, it's okay," he said, stepping over to her. "Like Dean said, we'll figure it out. And Dean's tough. Not to mention stubborn."

"Yeah, right," she said, giving him a shadow of a smile. "Guess I'd better get back and help Angie." With a gesture at the glowing circle, she asked, "How much time have we got?"

Sam looked. "Your guess is as good as mine. But it could be any minute."

"On my way then." She threw another glance at Dean before heading back to the library.

Sam made a few more circuits around the room, continually watching the candle flames, and alternately looking at his watch and checking on Dean. _Still nothing. Not a flicker, not a twitch, not a sound. Dammit, Dean, enough already, you gotta stop doing this to me or I'm gonna have grey hair way before my time... _Twenty-three minutes of non-stop prowling, and he halted suddenly to stare intently at the burning circle of salt. The flames dipped and fluttered. Dying. The blue light of the candles wavered, steadied, and slowly morphed into a normal yellow-white. There was a subtle shift in the air, a trembling. That strange heavy tension was back; something made him shiver, a shadow, a presence…He didn't know, and he didn't intend to stick around and find out.

"Ginny!" he shouted. "Everybody, time to go! Ian! Lissa! Angie! _Now!" _

He grabbed their bag of gear, tossed it over one shoulder, and as he went to Dean, he heard the echoing voices of those closest calling out to the others. He quickly threw the quilt aside, and hooked an arm under his brother's shoulder, hauling him up off the couch. Lissa and Angie came in at an awkward run, both of them carrying piles of what appeared to be books and documents.

"Go!" he said again. "Take everything outside, then come back to the door. See if the others need help."

They nodded, left with their collected booty, and Lissa was back in an instant, dragging out the box Sam had set by the door. He could hear them clattering up and down the stairs, and then Ian was in the room, cobwebs clinging to his dark hair and a smear of soot along one cheek. He immediately chucked his own box to the floor and helped a struggling Sam with Dean, wrapping an arm around the unconscious man's waist and taking some of his weight.

"Thanks," Sam said, that sense of urgency climbing. Dean's head lolled against his shoulder. "Where's Ginny?"

"Right behind me, I thought," Ian said, as they began half-carrying, half-dragging Dean out of the room. "God, the air's suddenly thick in here. Hard to breathe."

Just as Sam was about to give another shout, Ginny appeared suddenly from the hallway, shooing them on ahead of her; then Angie was back, picking up what Ian had dropped.

"Okay, we're all here?" Ginny panted, surveying her little group, as they staggered out the door and down the steps with their sundry burdens.

"Yeah, all present and accounted for," Angie said.

"Everybody got their stuff?"

Various nods and grunts of affirmation arose.

"Sam? What about the fire?"

"It'll just go out when the binding's broken," he said, slightly breathless. "Nothing to get the neighbors suspicious."

_Yeah, like carrying an unconscious man down the front steps won't. Sure hope nobody calls the cops; that's all we need..._

Halfway down the front walk, what sounded like a small puffing explosion reached their ears, and as a group they stopped to turn back to the darkened house to see a fluttering of curtains behind closed windows.

"Just in time, I think," Sam said, grimly, tightening his arm around Dean, and moving forward again.

As quickly as they could they continued down the sidewalk, through the tall, wrought iron gate, and across the street to their own house. Bright with warm, friendly light spilling from the front windows, it looked like home to Sam, and he was never so grateful to be anywhere in his life as at that moment.

With Lissa holding the door open, box propped on hip, they managed to get inside without losing a single dusty piece of paper. Ginny directed them to the living room, and everyone put down their hard-won piles of Thornton history with a communal sigh of relief. Dean was again deposited bonelessly on a couch, and, much to Sam's dismay, still showed no sign of rousing.

"Come on, bro," Sam muttered under his breath, "getting tired of dragging your sorry pain-in-the-ass ass around... Time to wake up, okay?" Crouched next to Dean, he patted his brother's cheek a couple of times, an action that would normally bring Dean awake and swinging. A fist. At Sam's head.

Ian, overhearing, cracked a grin at him. "Oh, brotherly love. What a beautiful thing." But he looked almost as worried as Sam felt.

Everyone had pretty much dropped on the floor along with their boxes and stacks, and they all sat back to just breathe for a moment. Sam plunked himself down to lean against the couch; if he tipped his head, he could feel Dean's shoulder. He saw Ginny, intent on Dean, and her fingers were pressed against her mouth as though trying to hold back a cry.

"Sam," she said, very quietly, as she moved her hand away. "What happened to Dean?"

Closing his eyes, he tried to see those frantic few seconds over again. But he was too aware of Dean behind him, and all he saw was his brother yet again at the mercy of the Thornton family ghost, in pain, and calling for Sam.

"I'm not sure," he said, forcing himself to look over at her. His voice shook, ever so slightly. "Something…he…when I finished the incantation. He just…collapsed. She'd…become visible by then, and she vanished at the same time, but that might have been because I fucked up and decided to fill her with rock salt," he ended in bitter self-recrimination.

"So what do we do now?" she asked, glancing aside at Dean. "Sam, should he be in a hospital?"

"I don't know, Ginny, I just don't know," he said, sagging lower against the couch. "I thought he'd wake up when the binding spell ran its course, if it did something to him in the first place, I mean… God, I screwed this up so bad." He stared up at the ceiling, and he could feel Dean's sweatshirt beneath his hair. "Dean was counting on me to get us in and out in one piece, and all I did was get him hurt again. Dammit!"

"Sam, honey, no, it's not your fault. Blame me for letting you go in there again, blame that bitch haunting the place, but it's not your fault. And you know Dean would tell you same thing."

He rolled his head sideways and met her eyes. "Well," he said, "he wouldn't blame you, either."

"Okay, it's the bitch's fault, then, all right?"

"Yeah," he sighed, "you're right." Then he almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the most welcome sound in the world.

Dean groaned.

Sam managed to get to his clumsy, shaking knees and turned so he could see his brother's face. Yes, that was definitely a grimace, and he could see the fluttering of eyelids struggling to open.

"Dean?" he said hopefully. "You awake?"

"Ohhh," came the less than coherent response an eternity later. Dean shifted on the couch, and Sam helped him hitch into an almost upright position. Then he groaned again, and rubbed his hands over his face.

"Dean?"

The hands fell away, and Sam grinned as the eyes opened fully to meet his own. But as his brother stared at him too long with a rather quizzical expression, Sam's grin faded. There was no recognition in those familiar green eyes, no spark, only confusion. With a chill that went deep into his very soul, Sam found himself looking back at a stranger. And he thought he'd been kicked in the stomach when he heard the first words his brother spoke.

"Why are you calling me 'Dean'? My name is Alex." His head tilted in puzzlement as he searched Sam's face. "Who are you?"

xxxxx

Dean Winchester was lost. Lost in the embrace of a beautiful woman, drowning in an overwhelming onslaught of memories that were not his own.

But even as the thoughts and images cascaded through him, becoming clearer and more real, even as the woman's arms held him like a familiar lover, something about the entire situation felt not quite…right. Whatever it was, it eluded his grasp like a darting minnow. But it made him uneasy enough to end the kiss and break away from her. He stared down into those beguiling blue eyes that he recognized, that he loved, that he'd never seen before outside of a dream…

"Bridget," he said, tasting the name on his tongue.

"Alex," she said, smiling back at him, the joy practically shining out of her. "Oh, Alex, my darling, you're here, I knew you would return. I knew you would come back, if only I waited long enough."

Her voice held a hint of a lilting accent. She was small; she barely came up to his shoulder. Her black hair was loose down her back, the way he liked it, hanging in long, silky waves. Clad in a blue dress that matched her eyes, her radiant beauty struck him anew. The look of sorrowing loss that he'd last seen on her face, in some memory (or dream?) that had nearly made him weep, was no longer in evidence.

Because of him? He had been gone, she said. Gone…

But…

"I'm…not Alex," he said, almost certain. "I'm…" He floundered.

"Of course you're Alex," she said lightly, laughing. "And who else would you be, then?"

He put a hand to his head, as though trying to will the fleeting thought to surface again. It was there, somewhere, he knew it…But she took his hand away, holding it between her own, and led him to a loveseat to pull him down to sit beside her.

"It has been far too long, my dearest. I have missed you so much." The blue eyes turned earnest and hopeful, almost pleading. "But now you're here with me again, and you'll never have to leave. We can be together, always."

They _had_ been here together. He could see them, in this very room, sitting together, leaning against one another in the evenings, talking softly and laughing, happier than he would've thought possible. For too short a time, though, not even a year, and then he had left for war…

But there was someone else, wasn't there? Someone else he used to laugh with, and tease, and without whom life wouldn't be worth a damn or have any meaning. Someone he had always watched over and looked out for… He could almost see – him? Tall, lanky, a wide grin… A sudden sharp throbbing in his temples caught him unawares, driving all other thought out of his mind, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the pain.

"Alex, I'm here, I'm right here," she kept saying, desperation coloring her voice. "Don't leave me, please. Not again." Her hand stroked across his forehead, and he felt the pain ease.

"No, Bridget, no, I won't," he said, smoothing her hair and drawing her against his shoulder. "Of course I won't leave you. Why would I ever do that?"

She settled into him, sighing, his arm around her, and he again had that twinge of wrongness about his surroundings. He knew this room, he recognized it as the front sitting room, but as he glanced around, he could sense…something off about it. Hadn't it looked…different, somehow, the last time he'd seen it? In darkness. With a strange flickering light… The pain flared again, briefly, enough to distract him from further contemplation of anything but Bridget. For she was his heart and soul, his very life.

How long they sat together, quiet, content, he couldn't have said, but gradually an awareness of other sounds, of voices, perhaps, intruded upon his senses. He frowned, and slowly straightened up, easing Bridget away from him. She made a small noise of protest, but she was nearly asleep and didn't stir. Where were those sounds coming from? There was urgency about them, somehow, a fearful warning…He needed to know. He _had _to. Getting to his feet, he slowly pivoted toward the door. Before, he had felt absolutely no desire to leave this room; now, he found himself almost frantic to get out. There was a reason he had to leave… But something had been holding him back, wanting him to stay.

He looked over at Bridget, now lying curled on the loveseat.

Then he staggered as a crack of thunder, or cannon fire in the heat of battle, seemed to go off right over his head. The room darkened as though clouds had covered the sun, and a sudden whirlwind swept through, scattering books from the table and billowing the curtains from the windows. Then it died as quickly as it had risen. _Now. _He ran for the door.

"No! No, you cannot leave! You mustn't!" Bridget was on her feet, staring wildly at him. "Alex, no, you promised!" She held out beseeching hands to him, but made no move to come closer. "It's not safe outside! Alex!"

Torn, he met her eyes, wet with tears, but he had to know what was on the other side of the door, and why she didn't want him to find out. He wrenched it open, and there was nothing but a dark void, roaring with an angry, battering wind. It was terrifying. But before he could even blink, he made an instinctive choice. For some reason, he thought of that lanky young man with the mop of dark hair, whoever he was. Bridget screamed as he threw himself forward. He fell, tumbling and twisting, hearing the echoes of Bridget's cries, and still he fell through the darkness...

And heard a voice he thought he should know calling for him. He slowly became conscious of lying on his back, of pain in his ribs and chest, and he let out a groan. A hand under one elbow helped him to sit up, and he managed to get his eyes open after scrubbing his hands over his face. Staring back at him, anxious, he thought, and with a growing smile, was a young man. With a mop of long dark hair. Familiar, maybe – but how…

"Dean?"

What? Baffled, he stared back. Where was he? No Bridget. No sunlit room. After a long moment of tongue-tied confusion, he finally asked, "Why are you calling me 'Dean'? My name is Alex." He watched panic, hurt, loss, he wasn't quite sure, fill the young man's eyes, but he could only say, helplessly, "Who are you?"

With those words, he saw he might as well have ripped out the young man's heart.

He found that he hated having put such an expression on this man's – boy's – face, and he said helplessly, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

To his surprise, the other man reached up to cup his face between gentle long-fingered hands, and with a strong, steady stare, he said, "It's okay, it's not your fault. Listen to me. Your name is Dean. Dean Winchester. You're the eldest son of John and Mary Winchester. You were born on January twenty-fourth, 1979, in Lawrence, Kansas. I'm –"

"Sam," he whispered. Reality turned one hundred and eighty degrees on its head, and came crashing down on him. _Sam. My little brother, Sammy. I'm not Alex, dammit. I'm Dean. I'm Sam's big brother. _He shivered. He could still feel Bridget, in his mind, somehow; and she wanted him back. She wanted _Alex _back. But Alex was dead, and so was she… "Cold," he said, his teeth chattering. "It's so cold. Don't leave me there, Sam."

"I won't, Dean, I won't. I promise," Sam said, the words tumbling from his mouth. "Come on, Dean, stay with me, now, come on." Sam let go of his face and instead wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders and pulled him close.

It wasn't enough.

"Sammy," he choked out, breathless. "She's got me. She's in my head, has been since…" He could feel himself slipping away, losing his grasp on the living world as she fought to pull him back into hers. "She's too strong," he gasped, trying to hold on, his fingers curling frantically, uselessly, into Sam's shirt. "And I'm so damn tired… You gotta help me, Sam."

"I will, you know I will," Sam promised, fierce and resolute.

"Sam," he said, one more time, before Bridget furiously swept him away into the cold and the dark, into her memories and her past, and the last sound he heard was Sam's voice, crying his name.

xxxxx

_"If I can't remember my own damn name when I wake up, it's all your damn fault."_

_"Just don't forget mine."_

_"Not a chance, geek boy."_

Sam's fists wound themselves in Dean's sweatshirt, holding tight, holding Dean awkwardly against him. Those horribly prophetic words, spoken as a joke, ran wildly through his mind. Dean's head lay on his shoulder, but his brother was gone again, trapped back in that place of nightmares. _She _had done this to him; _she _was the one hurting him, stealing his memories. And now Sam would have to fight her for his brother's life.

It was not a fight Sam intended to lose.

He had forgotten about the others in the room with him. All he'd been able to see was Dean, but now he felt the weight of their shocked, hushed attention, centered on him.

"Sam," Ginny said at last, very softly, breaking that heavy silence.

He raised his head wearily from where it rested against Dean's.

"He's gone again," Sam whispered. "She took him back."

"Sam, honey, why don't you let Ian help you get Dean upstairs to your room, all right? I think your brother will be more comfortable if he's lying in bed. You stay with him, and we'll get to work on this stuff we dragged out of the house. Okay? How does that sound?"

She was talking to him like a frightened child, he thought, and maybe she wasn't too far off the mark. But Sam had seen way too much in twenty-odd years, had endured too much to fall apart because his brother's consciousness somehow came to be trapped by the ghost of a dead woman. He'd seen worse happen to his brother…

He nodded. Ian was there in an instant, and though Sam was reluctant to let go, he slowly loosed his tight hold on Dean.

"Okay, Sam," Ian prodded gently. "I've got him. Come on."

They carried him upstairs, and Sam held Dean carefully against him as Ian turned down the blankets on the bed that Dean had made with near-military precision that morning. Sam got him lying down with Ian's help, and then tugged Dean's boots off and drew the covers up to his chest.

"Thanks," he said, not quite looking at the Englishman. "I'll be down in a few minutes, okay?"

"Sure, Sam." With a brief touch on Sam's shoulder, Ian was out the door, closing it behind him.

Sam let out a long breath as he sagged down beside Dean, wiping tiredly at his eyes.

"Dude," he said, feeling a painful need for some of Dean's smartass-ness, "I know you think you're a chick magnet, but come on, she's dead. You gotta draw the line somewhere, okay? I mean it. What the hell am I gonna do with you? Can't take you anywhere…" He swallowed, and briefly wondered if he should even bother to call their father. _Hey, Dad, there's this dead chick, and she's got it bad for Dean. Problem is, we don't even know who she is or where she's buried. So you see, Dean's in some serious trouble here if we can't find her bones pretty damn soon and turn her into smoke. What do you think, Dad? We could sure use your help on this one... _"Dean, you hang in there, okay? I'll get you out, I promise. Don't let this chick push you around. Use that Dean Winchester charm on her that you're always bragging about, talk her into throwing you out."

He could hear Dean's comeback for that one, complete with a patented smirk. _Sure, Sammy, no problem. She doesn't stand a chance, not against yours truly. You may have your psychic boy superpowers, but dude, I've got these devilish good looks and this killer smile. So quit worryin', okay?_

"Okay," Sam whispered. He put a hand on his brother's chest, needing the reassurance of feeling a continued beating heart, remembering a time not long ago when it _hadn't_ beat, when Dean lay in a damp basement, not breathing… How long would it take for that fear to go away? If it ever would.

With one last long look at Dean's pale face, strangely peaceful, Sam got up and ran downstairs into the living room. Before the astonished group could say anything, he snagged the duffel bag, and said over his shoulder on his way out, "Be right back." Taking the stairs two at a time, he quickly got to work back in their room. He didn't know if a salt circle would do any good at this point, but he decided it sure as hell couldn't hurt, and he was willing to try anything to protect Dean.

Luckily, the bed was on casters, on a hardwood floor, so he was able to move it away from the wall enough to form the circle more easily all the way around. But first… After a quick rummage through the other items brought up from the trunk of the Impala the day before, Sam pulled out two small wooden carvings, old objects of power from a long-dead shaman. Where John had gotten them, he'd never found out. Then there was the stone; flat, grey, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and inscribed with a prayer in a dead language to gods with lost names. One more, he thought, and decided on the Egyptian scarab for luck. As he bound the four sacred objects to the four corners of the bed, he murmured a litany in a language older than Methuselah to the four winds and the four elements, to banish evil and plea for protection. That done, he quickly poured the salt around the bed, and sealed his brother within the circle.

He sat back on his heels, wiped his forehead, and surveyed his handiwork. There was almost a shimmer around the bed, like heat waves on the highway on a summer's day, and he only hoped the power would help Dean, wherever he was…His brother hadn't stirred during all of Sam's working, and in fact, Sam thought uneasily as he studied him, he looked possibly even worse than before. Ghastly pale, with sunken eyes, he could've been a corpse laid out for a wake… _Stop it! Just stop thinking things like that! He's going to be all right. He's got to be. _

"Hang in there, Dean," he said again, then brushed his hands on his jeans and with one backward glance, headed downstairs.

The mood in the living room when he returned was far from jubilant. Though Ginny and her group of students had successfully raided the Thornton house of quite a large amount of books, records, and documents, all to help in solving the mystery of their ghost, no one looked much like celebrating. They were desultorily flipping through books and rummaging in the boxes they'd hauled out.

Ginny looked up. "Sam, how's Dean? Is it all right to leave him alone?"

He slumped into the couch cushions, wearily stretched out his legs, and wished he could cheer them up. "He's still out." Not sure he was up for a lecture on sacred circles and protection rituals, he simply added, "I, ah, think it's safe to leave him for a while. I'll check on him a little later." Shaking his head, he went on, quietly, "He managed to get away from her before, wherever it is she's got him, but…I think he's getting weaker. We're running out of time. Dean was right about that, somehow he knew…"

Hesitantly, looking up from a large book she held in her lap, Lissa asked, "What was that about him thinking he was someone named Alex? Is there another ghost? Is that like he's…possessed, or something?"

Grimacing at the unbidden memory of the insane, dearly departed – and thankfully burnt – Dr. Ellicott, Sam said, "No, I don't think that's what happened here. I think it's our ghost who did that to him. Did you guys hear what Dean said? 'She's got me. She's in my head.' Maybe we need to find out who this Alex is. At least that's a name, somewhere to start."

"There _were _a couple of Thornton men named Alexander," Angie said, flipping through her notebook until she found the page she wanted. "Okay, here it is. One was born in 1830, and died in, um, May of 1864, during the Civil War, and the other…where is he, I know I saw it…okay, yeah, lived from 1918 to 1944 – another soldier, killed on D-Day."

"Okay," Sam said, "so let's look at them and find out –"

An odd strangled exclamation from Lissa cut him off. "I don't think we need to look any further, you guys. No wonder our ghost latched onto Dean." Sam craned his head to see what she had. The big book in her lap was actually a dusty old photo album, cracked and a bit tattered. She now delicately held up, with slightly trembling fingers, a sepia-toned print that had come loose from the faded page. "I think our 1830 Alex is the one." She passed the picture over to Sam. "Does the expression 'dead ringer' apply here?"

Sam stared down at the photo she had given him, and cold fingers walked down his spine. "Holy shit," was all he could manage. It was Dean. It was Dean in a Confederate officer's uniform, standing tall and handsome, gazing solemnly into the camera, a tasseled cavalry sword slung at his hip, boots and buttons gleaming.

Angie was leaning over his shoulder, agog. "Yeah, the resemblance, as they say, is uncanny. I mean, my God, that's impossible," she went on in awe. "He's got Dean's _mouth._ He's got those _lips."_

"And those illegally long eyelashes," Lissa put in. "No man should have eyelashes that long, it's just not fair. Bet his eyes are green, too," she added.

Ian rolled his own eyes Sam's way. "Girls. So easily impressed by a pretty face."

"Oh, you're just jealous," Lissa said.

Despite the fact that Dean was lying unconscious upstairs, Sam couldn't help the smile that broke out. It wasn't anything he'd never heard (or overheard) before. Women swooned over his brother. And didn't that just make Dean a smug bastard? _Pain in the ass, no kidding. _

"Ladies," Ian was saying, "_I'm_ the one with the cultured British accent."

Sam went back to staring at the photo. Yes, it was uncanny, but the longer he looked the more he could see that the other man was not an exact double for his brother. He flipped the photo over, and it had the date written there, June 22, 1861, in a smooth copperplate hand. So, Alex Thornton was thirty or thirty-one at the time this was taken, older than Dean, with lines around his mouth, and crow's feet at his eyes; his hair was longer and not quite as dark… He shivered again.

"Are you sure you guys aren't related to this family? Or hey, what about reincarnation," Lissa speculated.

"Nope, no relation, just a coincidence," Sam said, not wanting to think about that too deeply. _There are no coincidences, not in our family. _

"Well, it sure is spooky. As if it weren't already." She went back to the album, flipping pages. "There's got to be more pictures of our Alex in here…"

Ginny hadn't said a word during all of this, and he glanced up to see her troubled expression. "So who is the woman, and what does she want with Dean? Is she this Alex's wife, jilted girlfriend, scorned mistress, murdered lover out for revenge, what? Why is she doing this? Does she think Dean _is _Alex?"

"Or does she just want Dean to _be _Alex?" Sam looked at the photo again, thoughtful. "She's in his head, according to Dean. She has to know he's not the same man. So maybe she…what? Filled his head with what she thinks Alex would know? So that he'd know her? Trying to make Dean forget who he is…" It had scared him when Dean had woken up thinking they were still in Nebraska; but that stare of confusion just moments ago directed at Sam, brief though it was, shook Sam even more. For Dean not to recognize him, to lose his brother to another's memory… Sam felt sick.

_Well, I guess we've ruled out Ginny's post-traumatic stress theory. It's been that bitch of a ghost, all along, in his head and screwing things up. _

Angie, back at her notes, said, "No record of our Alex having been married. Must be a sweetheart…"

"I did see her, for just a moment," Sam said thoughtfully, trying to recapture her in his mind's eye. "She was young, maybe in her early twenties… Dark hair. Pretty, I think, except for the fact that she looked angry as hell…"

"I'll see what I can do," Lissa said, carefully turning more pages. "If _he's_ in here, hopefully she will be, too. Otherwise, well, we found lots of junk. She's got to turn up if she's in the family."

"Let's just keep digging," Sam said, and tried to get the image of Dean's eyes, staring at him like a stranger, out of his mind. _Dean, don't give up. I'll get you out of there, I promise. _

xxxxx

"Noooooo! Sammy!"

One moment he was leaning weakly on Sam, trying to wrap his brain around the whole damn weirdness of it all; then, a dizzying flash later, he found he'd been pulled back inside the Thornton house – or some past version of it – ensnared in the memories of a dead woman.

But this time he knew who he was. He remembered. Everything. He was Dean Winchester, dammit, and Sam's big brother. _Not_ Alex fucking Thornton.

"And I never will be!" he shouted into the air from where he lay sprawled on the floor where he'd fallen. Where she'd dumped him, metaphysically speaking. "You hear me? You won't make me forget again, I won't forget my brother!"

No answer. Just silence.

Dean got to his feet – surprise, surprise, no pain in his battered ribs, another sign all of this wasn't real – and saw he was in the front sitting room again. Maybe her favorite room in the house? This was where she'd started to throw things at Ginny. Where she'd attacked him and Sam, where they'd performed the binding ritual, and he'd gotten trapped right along with her.

But she'd been in his head even before then, he knew that for sure now; he'd dreamt of her, of the sweet scent of roses, for she'd been walking through his nightmares right behind the reaper…

No sign of her now, though. At least, not right in front of him, putting her slender arms around him, looking up with those big blue eyes… He shook his head, determined not to think of blue eyes shining with tears. The house itself, instead of bright with some long-ago summer's day, was now nothing but grey twilight, grim and shadowed. And cold, cold as the grave. It was slowly seeping under his skin, into his bones, numbing him and making him shake. Did the house somehow reflect her, or her mood? Was she in hiding – or angry that he had flung himself out the door, after that promise never to leave her?

"Bridget!" he called, as he began to prowl about. First trying the front door – locked, he couldn't budge it, she'd obviously decided he wouldn't be using that as a likely escape route again – he then checked the windows. He found another door in the kitchen, but no luck there. She'd battened the place down tight. Looked like he was stuck. For now. He wondered if it were simply a case of willing himself out, of being strong enough to overcome whatever it was that bound him to her. Or it might just all come down to Sam…

After searching the first floor in vain, calling her name, he started climbing the wide staircase to the second floor. "Bridget, come on out! I won't hurt you, I just want to talk!" Shadows in the corners, a tense stillness in the air; he could feel her here, somewhere, watching, listening. "I can't stay with you, Bridget, you know that," he went on, as he continued his methodical sweep through the rooms. "I'm not Alex. I can't _be _Alex for you…"

"I know," she said, suddenly standing a few feet away, further down the hall, nearly hidden in the gloom.

Dean stopped, then took a single step back as she moved forward. The shadows fell away from her as she drew closer, and she was as heartbreakingly beautiful as he remembered. But the sadness had returned, her eyes were bleak, and for a moment, for just a breath, he wished he _had_ been Alex Thornton, coming home to her, to always be with her, to make her smile again… Then he wondered, uneasily, was that his thought, or some lingering fragment of a memory she had put there?

He fought down a shudder and forced himself to stand still as she approached and stopped in front of him.

"I know you're not Alex," she began, studying him with almost hungry intensity. "But oh my Lord," she whispered, as she reached up a hand to touch his cheek, but frowning and drawing it back when he could not restrain a flinch, "you could be, for you do so look like him. When I first saw you, I thought you _were_ my Alex, come home at last. I'd been waiting for him, you see, and it was forever and ever, and I grew so lonely… I don't know where he is. He lied to me, after all, and he's not coming." The tears slowly started to fall. Her eyes glittered as she looked at him, and he thought he saw madness there. "You lied, too, when you said you'd stay," she went on, her voice becoming cold. "But I have you now, and you're not leaving. You might not be Alex, but I can still make you think you are. I won't be alone any more."

"Bridget, no, I can't be with you," Dean started, but cut himself off when he saw the mounting fury on that lovely face. _Great, not only is she dead, but she's fucking crazy. I sure hope you're having better luck than I am, Sammy. Hope you guys found what you needed and are doin' the research, 'cause I don't know if I can make it outta here on my own... In the meantime, though, maybe a change of plan is called for here; she doesn't want to hear 'no' for an answer. Use that God-given charm you've got, not to mention these devilish good looks and killer smile. C'mon, Dean, how hard can it be to calm the wrath of a dead, pissed-off, almost sort of girlfriend?_

"Bridget, sweetheart," he smiled (the smile he saved for pretty girls, the one that nine times out of ten, got him a phone number), and put out his hand. "Let's go downstairs, sit for awhile, and talk things out. There's nowhere I gotta be, so hey, I might as well spend some time with you. All right?"

She stood, fists clenched at her side, obviously distrusting, but he kept his smile in place until it ached and gradually the anger faded; she softened and smiled back, taking his hand in her own.

_Yes indeed, if she had a phone number, it would be mine. Now be careful, don't forget she's nuts. Oh, shit, she's probably reading my_ _mind..._

xxxxx

Sam checked on Dean throughout the evening, every half hour or so, and though his brother refused to wake up, he was at least still breathing. And Sam felt his hopes diminish with every trip back up the stairs.

By two in the morning, Sam couldn't see anything except a blur instead of whatever it was he was trying to read, the yawns were nearly continuous, and so he finally turned off the lights and took himself away to bed. The others had already called it quits at least an hour ago, but he'd doggedly kept going through the miscellaneous piles of stuff they'd hauled out. The woman remained a mystery. No mention, no photos, nothing. He was beginning to think she'd never existed, for they were no closer to finding out who she was…

Once in their room, it was hard to not go to him, to put a hand against his throat and feel for himself that Dean's pulse beat strong and steady. But he didn't want to risk breaking the barrier of the circle, not yet.

He had just come out of the bathroom; teeth brushed, and changed into sweat pants and a t-shirt, when there was a quiet knock at the door.

It was Ginny, in pink pajamas, and a white robe adorned with flamingos. She looked almost as tired as Sam felt.

"I know it's late, Sam, I'm sorry, but I just wanted to see how Dean was. Do you have a minute?"

He swung the door open wider. "Of course, come on in. Just watch your step."

As she stepped into the room, her eyes were immediately drawn to the salt circle on the floor and the bed within it; and Dean, unconscious, lying there so still.

"Sam, what the hell?" She walked around it as far as she could, studying it, and he could see the growing fascination on her face. "Is this one of those protective circles you were talking about?" At his nod, she went on. "And you think this will help Dean, to keep that thing away from him?"

Sitting down in one of the reading chairs, he sighed and gestured for her to do the same. "I'm not sure. I didn't think it could hurt, though."

"How is he? Any change?"

Her worried gaze was focused on Dean, and Sam could see the strain the last few days had taken on her. She'd been strong for them all, Sam included, and he felt a sudden rush of affection for her, for the way she'd looked after them both, but especially Dean, right from the start.

"No. No change." He pulled his feet up and hugged his knees. "I can't lose him, Ginny," he said abruptly. "I can't. He's all I've got left. We're it. If he doesn't make it out of this…" His throat closed up, and he just shook his head.

"Oh, Sam," she reached out to give his leg a pat. "I wish I could say for sure that everything is going to turn out all right. But still, from what I've seen – and what I've heard – your brother is not the kind of man to give up too easily."

"What you've heard?" Sam repeated, raising his eyebrows. "What does that mean?"

She fiddled with the belt on her robe. "Well, when we started having our strange little…situation, I was on the phone with an old friend, and I was telling him about it, asking if he thought I was crazy. He was quiet for a little too long, and then he told me about a friend of his who taught at some posh prep school up in New England. He wasn't very forthcoming about the details; all he did was give me his friend's name and number, told me to call him and tell him my story. So I did."

Sam listened quietly, having an idea of where this was going. That cryptic comment Ginny had made upon meeting them, the one that had Dean growling, suddenly made sense. What had she said… Oh, yeah. _"I thought you'd be older."_

"Seems they'd had a little problem of their own, at this school, about three years ago – a rash of sudden, inexplicable suicides among a group of smart kids who had no reason to do such a thing. But somebody knew somebody, and these two men showed up and took care of the problem. The teacher at the school was reluctant to tell me much at first, but I weaseled the whole story out of him. Seemed that the ghost of a student who had killed himself back in the thirties was reenacting his death by making these students commit suicide as well. Well, these two men, an older man and – well, the teacher called him a boy – they got rid of the student's ghost, but before that, the boy almost died the same way those other kids had. The ghost tried to make him hang himself."

"Dean." Sam swallowed in a dry throat, and closed his eyes. Three years ago. He'd been a freshman at Stanford, living a new life and trying to forget his old one.

"Uh huh. But the boy was too damn stubborn, I guess, because even though that ghost had the rope around his neck, he kept fighting. Then your father" – and it almost sounded like a question – "did whatever it is you boys do, just in time, and though Dean had stopped breathing for a minute or two, he came back."

"He never told me that one," Sam said, dropping his head onto his knees.

"He probably didn't want to worry you. Isn't that what older brothers do?"

"Oh, yeah." His face was still buried against his kneecaps. "Stupid, stubborn idiot."

"He'll keep fighting, Sam. We'll get to him in time, I'm sure of it."

"Thanks, Ginny." He turned his head to the side.

"Sam…" She hesitated, obviously torn in wanting to ask more, but also respecting his privacy. Curiosity won out. "What about your father? I mean, I called his number, the one I got from the friend of my friend, but then I got Dean's number… And when I asked at the hospital if there was anyone I should call for you, you said there was no one. Is he, did he…?"

"No," Sam sighed, wearily. "He's not dead. He's just sort of…incommunicado, I guess. We've been looking for him, when we aren't doing…other stuff." His voice tightened. "But he never showed up when Dean was sick, when he was…dying. I called, I had to leave a goddamn _message,_ and for all he knows, Dean could be dead now. Did he ever call back? Ever try to find out what was wrong? Hell, no. So," he looked over at Dean, "it's just us. Dean and me."

"It still will be, Sam. Dean won't want to leave you, either." She stood up and gathered her robe around her. "I'm going to bed." As she turned to go, she got as close to the salt circle on the floor as she could and said to Dean, "Goodnight, sweetie. I expect you to be up in the morning. Quit slacking."

"Ginny –" Sam got up and on impulse pulled her into a hug. "Thanks."

She hugged him back, hard, before letting go. "Go to bed, Sam." Then she ducked out the door.

"Hear the lady, Dean?" Sam said, looking over at his brother. "Wake up… Don't stop fighting, okay? Don't leave me…"

xxxxx

She'd insisted on the loveseat again, but at least she wasn't cuddled against him. Instead she sort of backed into the corner, making herself small (and she wasn't that big to start with), and Dean kept a careful distance between them.

"Tell me about Alex," he said, certain that the subject would get her talking. "What was he like?"

"Oh." She smiled, and it transformed her face. The angry, scorned woman was gone; she was no longer mad with grief, or loneliness, but once again the sweet, lovely girl who had kissed him with such passion.

_Don't go there, Dean. Stop thinking about that. You're not sticking around just because she's a great kisser. She's dead._

But not crazy, either, is she, he realized with a pang somewhere in his chest. Just sad and lonely.

"He was so handsome." Her eyes swept slyly over him, and he fought the blush that rose in his face. "But you know that already." And she laughed. "He came into the shop where I worked. When I saw him, I thought I'd never seen anything so fine and beautiful in all my life. He wanted to buy his sister a birthday present, and he asked for my help. He bought her a lacy shawl, and I wrapped it up for him, and he was ever so kind. And then," she went on, as though still unable to believe it, "he came back the next day, to ask me out for tea, and the day after that. Me, Bridget O'Connor! A poor Irish shopgirl, with no one in the whole wide world. A man like that, interested in me…"

"It's not so surprising at all," Dean said gently. "I would have asked you out for tea, too." The words were out before he could stop them, but he found he meant them. He gave himself a mental slap. _You're supposed to work on getting out of here, not giving her more reasons to keep you around. Jackass. _"Um, what then? He took you home to meet his parents?"

Bridget's mouth quirked up in a funny little smile, showing dimples. "We got married. Then he took me home."

"Well, a man who wastes no time when he sees what he wants. I can admire that."

She laughed, and he grinned along with her. "So he took me home, to this grand house, and wasn't I just the fish out of water then. He bought me fine new clothes, pretty things, not that I needed anything but him, and we were so happy. His sister was lovely, and treated me like her own sister herself. His younger brother was a sweet boy, he adored Alex, and I grew to love them all so much." She trailed off, her gaze looking over his shoulder, somewhere beyond him, into the past.

"What then, Bridget?" he asked softly. "What happened then?"

She was silent for so long that he thought he'd lost her. But she seemed to shake herself out of where she'd gone, and looked at him again, though the sadness was back in her eyes.

"Alex's parents had been abroad all this time, traveling in Europe, the whole Grand Tour," she said. "They didn't know about me, Alex didn't tell them."

"So when they came home…"

"We'd gotten married in June. June 22, 1860. We had a few months together, less than a year, when the war started in April of 1861. He was an officer, you see, a captain then. His parents came home, what with the war, worried about the plantation and the family, and you can probably guess what they thought about me…"

Oh, yeah. He could picture that scenario pretty well. Wealthy family. Snobbish, outraged parents. Young heir marries gold-digging white trash from the wrong side of the tracks. Bet it went over like a ton of bricks.

"Then he was gone, and I was here, alone, with them. Alex's younger brother, Daniel, joined a regiment and went off to fight. His sister, well, she was too young to defy her parents, so when they told her not to have anything to do with me, she had little choice."

"Oh, Bridget." He moved and suddenly she was in his arms, weeping silently on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry. Don't cry, now, it's all right. Shhh." He rocked her gently, his hand stroking her hair.

The tears eventually slowed, stopped, and she turned her head to rest it on his shoulder, but didn't pull away. "The slaves were the only ones who were nice to me," she said in a low, thick voice. "Maybe because they saw that I was as unhappy as they were. I hated the slavery, hated it, but they were so kind to me, especially Jacob, and Abigail. And Isaac and his wife, Penny… Even when, even after…" She couldn't go on, and Dean didn't push. She would tell him when she was ready.

She fell asleep in his arms, and strangely enough, he didn't mind.

xxxxx

Dean must have drifted off without knowing it, for when he opened his eyes, Bridget was gone from his side. The shadows had disappeared from the house. It was once again bright and sunny, and when he looked out the windows, it was high summer with the roses in full bloom. As he wandered from room to room, he had absolutely no sense of time passing; it simply _was. _

He fretted over Sam, who was no doubt fretting feverishly over him.

He wondered what day it was in the world, in the living world. He wondered if he was in a hospital. While he might feel fine here, out there he knew he was growing weaker, and had been since that first night they'd seen Bridget's ghost. Since she'd first gotten her ethereal hands on him, and gotten in his head somehow…

"I never meant to hurt you, you know," she said, doing that thing where she showed up out of nowhere and startled the bejesus out of him. It only made her laugh when he jumped, and he couldn't help grinning back.

"Hurt me when?" he asked, pulling out a chair for her at the table in the kitchen. He'd wound up here a while ago, amused when confronted by the lack of modern shiny appliances. No coffee maker or dishwasher in Bridget's old plantation kitchen, of course, just a monster of a cast-iron stove and gleaming copper pots and pans. He joined her at the table, and she tilted her head up at him.

"When you came in the first time. I didn't even notice you, until that rude young man came stomping in, all loud and shouting. I _was_ throwing things at _him_. He'd been here before, and I didn't like him then, either. I'm sorry you got hurt."

"Oh, that's all right. It was my fault. I only meant to push him out of the way. Tripped over my own feet."

"You're very gallant," she said gravely. "Just like Alex. You are very much like him, you know."

"Besides handsome?" he teased.

"Oh, yes. Though," she considered him, "I think your eyes are greener." She looked down at her hands clasped in front of her on the table. "Dean –"

He started. That was the first time he'd heard her use his name.

"Why aren't you trying to get away, like before?" She raised her eyes to his again.

He panicked for a heartbeat or two. What could he say? _Sure, sweetheart, just tell me where you're buried, let me get the hell out of this living death nightmare, and I'll go burn your bones and be on my way. _Except he didn't quite feel that way, not anymore. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Um, well, I guess I wanted to see what I could do to help you," he managed to blurt. He chewed on his lip, wondering if he dared to bring up the subject again without provoking her wrath. On the other hand, she _had_ asked. "Bridget, you know I can't stay here with you," he said, softly, "flattered though I am by your attention. But if you let us, I think my brother and I can help you…move on, so you can be with your Alex again."

"Because I'm dead."

"Uh, yeah," he agreed, definitely feeling weird about the idea, not to mention hearing her say it out loud.

"And Alex is dead." Her voice was flat.

He nodded.

"I don't know how," she whispered, suddenly looking very young, and very afraid. "I've been alone for so long. I just want to stay here; I know where I am. And I want you to stay with me." She started crying. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it, and I never meant to hurt you. But I was so lonely, and you were there, and I could see the hand of Death already upon you."

"Bridget?" He felt cold all over. Did she mean the reaper? "Bridget, what are you talking about? Do you mean when I was sick? When I was dying? How did you know about that?"

"I don't know!" she cried. "Because of what I am, I suppose. I saw Death on you, and I could touch you, see into you and your dreams. You were so beautiful, and I wanted you so badly. Then when you and your brother came back, and tricked me into that circle, you came with me because we were bound together. Because I'm dead and you were already marked from Death's touch."

"But I was healed, I was all right," he said, uneasy. The guilt rose up to choke him. "Someone else died for me, in my place."

"But then Death touched you again, and weakened your spirit," she said, hardly able to get the words out. "It was so easy to follow, to take your strength, your bright, living soul. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

_And the reaper was grasping his head in a cold hand, driving him to his knees in a muddy field, killing him slowly with just a touch, and he didn't fight, didn't try to run, and his life bled away in the dark..._

He swallowed, feeling his hands shake from the memory, and for a second his vision darkened. _Shit. Dead, dying, trapped in limbo. Why can't anything ever be easy? _

"Bridget, please, you have to help me." He got up to crouch next to her chair, taking her hands. "If I'm dying out there, you have to let me go. Send me back. You know I can't do it on my own. I'm not strong enough, not anymore."

"I'm sorry," she whispered again. "But it's too late."

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sam slept maybe two or three hours, tossing restlessly from one dark dream to another, each one leaving him cold and shaking. Or else he lay awake, listening for the sound of Dean breathing, and starting up in panic when he thought he couldn't. Finally, he just rolled out of bed, before the grey light of dawn even paled the sky, and powered up the laptop.

It wasn't enough to protect Dean; he had to _do_ something. He had to bring his brother back from wherever it was the spirit had taken him. _Shit._ Sam ran fingers through already mussed hair and stared at the screen in front of him. He'd wasted too much time last night, going through musty old journals and documents, looking for a sign of their ghost. Ginny's crew could do that. As far as researching ways to reunite a lost soul, a trapped soul, with its corporeal body, well, he was probably on his own…

The nature of the soul, he thought. Astral projection? Out of body experiences? Soul travel? He could just hear Dean scoffing cheerfully at the New Age nonsense of it all… But where to begin? He remembered college courses, seemingly taken a hundred years ago, philosophy and classics, and decided for the hell of it to start with Aristotle's _De Anima,_ and the Greeks. He then made his way through other ancient peoples and their beliefs; scanned the religions and philosophies of East and West; and read until his eyes blurred and he had to come up to breathe.

The house was still quiet, thankfully, and he made his way silently down to the kitchen. He brewed a pot of coffee, scrounged a couple of donuts left from yesterday, and thus armed with caffeine and sugar (two of the basic food groups, according to Dean), he trudged upstairs again. As he sat down, grimacing at the bitter taste of the coffee, he saw with surprise that it was light outside.

He stared at his printed notes in despair, thought of the literally hundreds and thousands of links from website to website, and his shoulders sagged. There was just too much. He needed help. Sam sighed and stretched, glanced over at Dean yet again; then with utter disregard for time zones, got out his cell and Dad's journal and started making some calls.

From those of John's friends he did manage to reach, he got a slew of different and sometimes downright contradictory answers and solutions. With every call, he grew more and more frustrated.

When he finally thought of calling Missouri – and smacking himself in the forehead for not doing it sooner – he was running on little more than coffee fumes, and his head throbbed horribly. When the psychic answered, he could barely get a word out, but her sweet, calming voice was like a balm.

"Missouri, it's Sam," he said.

"Why, honey," she chuckled, "as if I didn't know. It's that brother of yours, isn't it? What kind of trouble has he gotten into now? Tell me, Sam, and we'll find a way to get him out of it."

After a couple of false starts, the story came pouring out. He knew he wasn't telling it well, he kept backtracking and explaining and forgetting, but she seemed to understand what it was he wasn't saying. Either that, or she simply picked it all up out of his head, and just let him talk for the sake of talking and getting it out.

"So what can I do?" he asked, winding down, exhausted. "He's still out, and if – _when –_ he does wake up, who's he gonna be? Dean or Alex? How do I get my brother back, Missouri?"

"Sam, he came back before, and he did find his way out of those memories she spun around him. You know he's strong and stubborn. But it sounds like this little Miss might be hanging onto him a bit tighter this time, and the longer he stays with her, the harder it will be to get him free. He's fighting, Sam, you know that. Dean wouldn't give up. I know I gave him a hard time when we last met, but he's a good boy. I know he's got a strong spirit – and Sam, he wouldn't leave you."

"I know," Sam said, slumping deeper into the chair, "but he was hurt, he's been so tired, and now he just keeps getting weaker… I think… I think she's killing him, Missouri, with whatever it is she's doing to him." He had to stop, to take a breath. "You know what? He actually _asked_ me for help. Dean never does that. He hates admitting that he needs help, he _hates _it."

"He needs you, Sam, to help him find his way back. You can do it. You can already see farther than most folk, you know that. Well, you just need to see a little farther this time, is all. Look into the dark, Sam, and you call that brother of yours. You call his name, you watch for him, and when you see him, you grab him tight and hang on, boy, you hear me? Blood calls to blood, Sam, blood and breath and bone, and Dean just needs you to guide him home again."

"But how do I do that?" he cried. "What if he's not there? How do I find him? The visions come to me, in nightmares; I can't control what I see, Missouri, I can't force them to show me Dean. Please, I don't understand!"

"You do, Sam. Just look inside yourself. You'll know what to do." Then as if sensing his complete confusion, she relented. "Something of Dean's, honey, something he always has on him, or carries, something that's a part of him – use that, focus on that. Start there, Sam. The rest will fall into place."

He breathed out a sigh. "Okay, Missouri. It's just…this is Dean's _life _we're talking about here, not some yoga meditation exercise. If I can't do this…"

"You can, Sam. Trust yourself. Now, go get that smart aleck brother of yours out of that woman's clutches. Fool boy, in trouble with a woman. As if I couldn't have guessed."

Sam had to laugh at that, though it came close to turning into a squeaky sob at the end. "All right. I'll be sure to tell him you said that."

"You do that, hon. You call me later, when things are settled down."

"Okay. Thanks, Missouri."

He hung up, tossed the phone on his bed, and turned his brooding gaze to Dean's motionless form. _Thanks for getting all cryptic on me there, Missouri. Nothing like a little bit of obscure psychic shorthand to really clear things up… Look into the dark, call his name and hang on. Well, damn. Yeah, young Skywalker, use the Force already, all right? _He chewed on a fingernail, sighed again, and tried to shove his doubts to the back of his mind. _I'm coming, Dean, so you just better be there. _

It was just after nine o'clock, and he could finally hear movement elsewhere in the house. He supposed that everybody must've decided to sleep in after last night's exhausting mixture of chaos, confusion, and discovery. Deciding that the idea of a hot shower was becoming more appealing with every passing moment, he took time to get cleaned up and change clothes.

Mere minutes later, he felt somewhat better, but still achingly tired. He was also becoming uneasy, as though possessed with a sense of urgency that he had to get Dean back _now_, or it would be too late, and his brother would be lost forever. A sudden searing image flashed behind his eyes. _Dean in a hospital bed, thin and pale, surrounded by monitors and machines. Feeding tube and respirator. His body lay there, but Dean was gone. It was an empty shell, just wasting away. _Sam gasped, swayed, and had to grab a chair to remain on his feet. No. That was not going to happen, not to Dean.

The knock on the door nearly had him jumping out of his skin. "Come in," he called, shakily, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead.

"Sam?" Ginny peered around the door. She went on, whispering, "Thought I heard you up. How's Dean this morning?" Her sharp gaze took in his leaning stance, his hand still braced on the chair. "How are _you?" _

"I'm all right. Just tired." He looked at Dean. "The same." He gestured for her to come in, and she did, softly closing the door behind her. She studied Dean for a moment, stepping nearer to the salt circle, and she let out a sigh. "Oh, sweetie, where are you?" Reluctantly, it seemed, she turned back to Sam. "Sam, if he doesn't wake up soon… I hate to say it, but I think we'll have to get him to the hospital – I'm worried about him becoming dehydrated if this goes on. Dean's strong, I know, but, Sam…"

"No," Sam shook his head. That awful vision was still in his mind. "No, it won't come to that. I won't let it. I've been talking to some of our dad's friends, and I think I've got it figured out. You just said it, Ginny – Dean's not _there. _I have to go find him. And I've got to do it soon."

She waved a hand at the protective circle. "More of…that?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess." He squirmed, not wanting to offend her by not talking about it, but also feeling that if he explained it out loud, it just might sound too damn crazy. How could he possibly tell her about Missouri and his weirdly new gift – or curse – of psychic visions? _Nope, not going there. _Shrugging, he merely said, "I have to try something, Ginny."

"And you'd like me to leave so you can get working on it. Okay, Sam." She nodded. "I hear you. Not that I'll be able to offer much in the way of arcane and esoteric assistance, but if you need help, with anything…"

"Thanks. You'll be the first to know."

"Bring him back, Sam."

He just nodded.

As soon as she left, he began to move without really thinking, simply acting, gathering what he thought he might need. He thought of rituals, of Latin and Greek prayers, incantations, blessings performed on relics and religious icons, and wondered if he was making it all too hard. What kind of preparations could he make? Missouri had made it sound so damn easy… Use something that belonged to Dean, she said (the necklace he'd worn all these years, with the amulet, of course), and then blood… That gave him an uneasy moment, and he paused in his rummaging through their bag of supplies. Did she mean that literally? Or just in the case of he and Dean being brothers? _Blood calls to blood…_ Blood signaled sacrifice to him, it felt tainted of dark magic, and places he did not care to venture. But it was also very powerful…

Hands full, he took a step closer to the circle he had put around Dean the night before, and used his foot to scuff away part of the salt. Breaking the circle was almost like popping a bubble, and he shivered briefly at the rush of displaced air. Two more steps took him to Dean's bedside. He knew Dean hadn't moved at all since last night; he hadn't turned his head, not even his fingers had shifted restlessly beneath the covers. Asleep, or even unconscious, he would've changed position or curled up – _something._

Eyes on his brother's slack, pale face, he sat down on the edge of the bed, dropped the stuff he was holding, and for the first time in twelve hours or so he was able to put a hand on Dean. He reached out to check his brother's pulse. Slow, faint. And his breathing was distressingly shallow. Sam shivered again, and got to work.

It actually _was_ rather simple, he reflected, if this was really what Missouri meant. Straightforward. Pure. No trappings, just blood, and a single object upon which to focus… Well, nothing like winging it. He put a white candle on the table next to the bed and lit it. He'd fished out a small knife from the duffel bag, but knowing Dean, he might not need it. Slipping a hand gently under the pillow Dean's head rested upon, a smile flitted quickly across his face as he brought out the knife Dean had placed there with his usual paranoia (or precaution, as Dean would say). Since it was Dean's favorite and he always had it on or near him, Sam figured it would be the best one to use for what he had in mind. He tugged down the blanket, freeing Dean's hands. He debated, briefly, which hand to use, and settled on the right one.

Dean's hand was limp and cold in his as he held it palm upward.

Sam took a deep breath, and the knife in his own hand trembled. Could he really do this? He heard Missouri's voice in his head. _"He needs you, Sam, to help him find his way back." _He swallowed, and after a heartbeat's hesitation, he brought the knife slicing across Dean's palm in a shallow cut. Blood welled. Dean neither flinched nor stirred. Sam quickly shifted the knife and made a cut in his own right palm. Dropping the knife on the bed, he brought their hands together; the blood mingled.

He leaned over his brother, lifted the necklace slightly away from Dean's chest, and slid the amulet between their bloodied hands. The edges of it ground into the cut he'd made, and he winced as he pressed it harder into Dean's hand. Then he thought he'd double his chances and smeared blood across the ring Dean wore on the third finger of his right hand. He pictured the amulet in his mind – the way it swung from Dean's neck, always lying against whatever t-shirt he wore, the color and texture and every detail he could remember. Sam gripped Dean's hand between both of his, all too aware of the blood pulsing beneath the callused skin, and he set his unblinking gaze on the candle flame. He tried to slow his breathing to match Dean's.

Sam's eyes drifted shut. Their joined hands came to rest on Dean's chest, over his heart. Maybe it was because he was so damn tired, but he fell easily into a half-waking sort of awareness, as though on the verge of sleep but not quite there. Gradually, he had the sensation of floating, bobbing on waves in a rolling ocean. It was quiet and peaceful. Sam thought he opened his eyes, but all was darkness around him in that vast abyss, and without further thought he shouted out a resounding cry for his brother, calling his name, seeking his spirit.

xxxxx

Dean's hands tightened on Bridget's and he rocked back on his heels. "Too late?" he repeated, his mouth dry. "Does that mean…I'm already dead?"

She was still weeping silently. Her long hair hid her face as she bent over their clasped hands. "You're here," she said, "but not _there._ I don't know, I don't know. I can't find you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Tear-stricken eyes lifted and met his. "I hurt you, and I kept you here. Forgive me, please…"

"Bridget, my heart –" _Where had that come from? _ "Stop crying, okay? It's all right. Come on, there's my girl." _I should definitely be more freaked out than this. I could be dead, and all I'm doing is holding a crying girl's hands. Who also happens to be dead. Not what I thought I'd be doing when I got up this morning. Or whatever day it is. Was. _

Disengaging her hands from his, she wiped at her eyes, and he had trouble making sense of the look she gave him.

"You sound like Alex," she whispered.

That brought him up short. Another random bit of memory, he supposed, slipping through the cracks in his mind and coming out his mouth. "Uh, sorry," he said, awkward. He stood up, and pulled her with him. "Bridget, maybe it is too late, but, please, can you try? Will you open the door for me?"

"You'll be lost," she said, shivering. "There will be nowhere for you to go." When she reached up to brush her fingers down his face, tracing his cheekbone and jaw, instead of flinching he found himself turning into the touch. "Stay here, stay with me."

"I can't," he murmured, as she leaned into his chest. His arms automatically went around her. "I have to try, don't you see? My brother's back there, doing his best to help me. He's all I've got." _Besides a wandering, missing father, that is. _"I can't just…leave him." _Oh, Sammy. _

"Then you'll be gone, just like Alex. I'll be alone again. Forever and ever."

"Bridget." He took a deep breath, thinking he must be insane (and hearing Sam's incredulous, pissed-off voice in his head, expressing the same sentiment), "if I _am _dead, I'll find you. I'll come back, I promise. And if I'm not dead, I'll come back anyway, somehow, and help you. I'll help you find Alex, all right? But I can't do anything here, while I'm…like this."

She was very quiet. Then, as though not daring to believe, "You'd come back? After what I've done to you?"

"Call me crazy, but, yeah, I'd come back." He looked down, only the top of her head visible as her face was buried in his shirt. "I don't blame you, Bridget," he said, his voice soft, "really, not anymore. I can understand why you did it. Sometimes…sometimes I get pretty lonely myself. But I have to get back to my brother; don't you see? And I can help you, I promise, but you have to help me leave here, first." He paused, hesitating, wondering how to ask. "Bridget, if I get out of here, _when_ I get out of here, there's something I'll need to know, if you want to leave this place, too." Lowering his voice to a near whisper, he asked, "Do you…remember what happened? After Alex left? You waited and waited, but he never came home…"

She didn't answer right away. The muffled sobs tore at his heart, and her slight body shook against his.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, please, it's all right, you don't have to talk about it. Bridget, I'm sorry…"

She shook her head, the sobs gradually quieting. Continuing to just hold her, stroking her hair, he waited. Finally, she started to speak, and he had to strain to hear her.

"I…got a letter, one day," she said softly, her face slightly turned away from him now. "It was in the spring, that's all I remember. He was gone, and I didn't care anymore, about anything. I might have gone a little bit mad." A small choked laugh escaped her. "You see? You were right about that… It's all so confusing after that, Dean. Everyone left, except for me, and some of the slaves. Maybe one of the overseers. I never really knew. It didn't matter. Then soldiers came, with fire and death, and it turned into Hell on earth, and I prayed to die. But I didn't. Not then. I just waited for Alex…" She fell silent, and clung to him.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I shouldn't have asked you that. Forgive me."

"No," she murmured. "There is nothing to forgive. It's all gone, and this is all I have. If you leave here, you'll be lost, too." Her arms tightened around his waist. "Out there. It's nothing but the cold and the dark, and…" She shivered against him. "There are evil things waiting. Horrible things. That's why I stay here. I can't leave…"

He gripped her shoulders and gently pried her away from him so he could look into her eyes. "Bridget, I've seen lots of evil, lots of horrible things. I'm not afraid of them." Dean swallowed, wondering if he was lying as he went on. "I'm not even that afraid of death. It's been close for a long time."

"I know," she whispered. "You're more afraid of losing your brother – you'd give your own life if it meant saving his. You're afraid for _him,_ of what would happen to him, when you're gone." She smiled sadly at his obvious and sudden discomfiture. "You forget I've seen your dreams. Death walks in them, and you always defy him. You are very brave, Dean Winchester. Far braver than I." She took a deep sighing breath. "I will help you, even though I am afraid for you. I can open the door of this house, but after that, you will have to find your own way. I have no power beyond these walls."

"But I got back before," he protested. Vague memories of that fall through the darkness teased at the edges of his mind. "How did I do that?"

"You were alive."

_Oh. Right. Well, shit. That could be a problem…_

"How long have I been here, then?" he asked, frustration making him cross. "If I am…dead, has it been hours? Days? Weeks?" _Ugh. _"Am I a buried corpse?"

"I don't know! Time means nothing here. It's different than…out there."

"Well, shit!" he growled, out loud. And then added a sheepish, "Sorry," at Bridget's look of severe disapproval. "But I think I need to hurry, is all. It just feels… I don't know." He gave a helpless shrug. "It feels like if I don't go now, I never will and it'll be too late. Sam's up to something, I know it."

Bridget studied his face for such a long moment that he became embarrassingly self- conscious.

"What?" he asked. "Have I turned green or something?"

"No." She smiled, sadly and sweetly, and he felt his heart turn over. "Come," she said. "Let's go open the door so you can find your brother."

Dean dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Thank you," he breathed.

Taking her hand in his, he led the way out of the kitchen into the hallway and down to the front door, noticing that the light began to gradually dim as they walked. He stood in front of the door, grimacing as he remembered the crushing pain from the heavy chair that had pinned him there (in that other Thornton house, the real one), and the cold mist that had been Bridget, curling around him.

She let go of his hand, then, and without even her touching it, the door slowly opened. It swung inward, silently, and beyond it was the terrifying abyss and the howling wind. She stepped back, quickly, and Dean could see the slight tremor that went through her.

"Don't go," she whispered, her fear for him clear. "Please."

Dean could feel the wind tugging hungrily at him as he stood on the threshold. He turned back, for one last look, and saw the terror in her eyes. "Don't be afraid," he said. "I'll come back, to the other house, and you wait for me there, all right? I promise, Bridget. You hear me? I won't leave you alone."

He wasn't even sure if she heard him. But as she raised her hand to bid him farewell, he felt a sudden pain prick his heart. Was that sad and lovely face the last Captain Alexander Thornton had seen of her before he marched off to war, never to come home again? _And here I go, one hundred and forty something years later, leaving her just as Alex had,_ _promising to return to_ _her…_ _I will. I will come back. _He met her eyes, blue as a Kansas summer sky, and nodded, then turned to face the dark again, hands braced on the doorframe. A snatch of conversation with Sam surfaced in his mind, from those moments before they entered Roy LeGrange's tent in that field in Nebraska, and he gave himself a wry, almost mocking smile.

Faith. Yeah, taking a leap of faith here, huh, Sammy? Well, maybe you've got enough for the both of us. Faith in you and me, that's about it, bro, so I sure hope you're workin' some mojo out there, Sam. Sure hope you're still hanging onto me, somehow, 'cause ready or not, here I come.

Dean made that leap with a shout, flinging himself into the dark, and it was Sam's name on his lips as he fell.

xxxxx

Sam searched. With all of his senses, with his heart. There was not much to see in this darkness, but his inner vision, his mind's eye, he supposed, knew that something was out there… Movement, currents, flickers of light and shifting energies, and somewhere, Dean. He _had_ to be here.

On one level, he could still feel Dean's hand, tightly trapped between his own, sticky with the blood that bound them together; on another, he called his brother's name in the dark, instinctively casting his vision far and wide as he sought for a sign of Dean's familiar presence, of what made him _Dean. _

But as he searched and called, he realized with a sudden horror that he no longer felt the reassuring beat of Dean's heart beneath his hands. His brother's chest failed to rise again, the lungs failed to take another breath.

"Dean!" he shouted, in his mind or aloud, he didn't know. "Dean, come on, don't you dare, don't you do this!"

_Now what, Missouri? You didn't mention this possible little scenario. So what the hell do I do, huh?_ _Stop the soul search mumbo jumbo and give him CPR? Body, soul, which is it? Goddammit, Dean, don't do this to me!_

"Dean!" he howled into the abyss. And again. "Dean!" Sam shouted until he ran out of breath – and miraculously, at last, a faint flicker answered him. The amulet he held crushed between their hands warmed and tingled against his palm. "Come on, come on," he screamed. "Don't give up! I'm here, Dean!"

Still no heartbeat. No breath. But…

_Sam!_

xxxxx

Dean fell, and he remembered. The shrieking wind that tossed him effortlessly like a twig in a raging torrent of water, the freezing cold of the dark, and the feeling that _something_ waited for him just out of reach… But he had found his way back before, not even knowing who he was, or how he got there. He'd just done it. He could damn well do it again.

But what if he _was_ dead… He'd have nowhere to go.

Hell with that.

There was no sense of up or down. Nothing but the darkness, rushing past. A quick slash of burning pain across one shoulder had him twisting away with a startled shout. Evil things in the darkness, Bridget had said… The next slash raked his hip and sent him careening off in some other non-direction. He had a sudden and vivid image of a cat playing with a mouse, batting it from side to side. Still he fell. Forever.

And then thought he heard something, an echoing cry from far away.

He felt another bright pain, this time in his right hand, and then it became not so much pain as warmth, warmth that blossomed and grew. It made him realize how cold he'd been. For some reason, he put his hand up and clenched his fist tightly around the amulet that hung from his neck. The resulting shock made him gasp, and he could've sworn he felt another hand gripping his, a voice screaming his name, and he yelled –

"Sam!"

At least he thought he yelled. The darkness swallowed the sound, but he could feel the pulsing warmth beneath his hand getting stronger.

"_Dean!"_

He'd never heard anything so sweet in his life.

"Sammy, get me outta here!"

"_You hang on, you hear me? Don't you dare let go, or I will kick your ass to Kansas and back again. Come on, come on! I'm right here, Dean!"_

He focused on Sam's voice, his little brother's frantic voice, and the glowing thread of warmth between them drew him like a moth to a flame, like an arrow straight and true to its target.

His body felt on fire. He wondered crazily if he looked like a meteor, streaking toward the earth. Then with a cry he crashed, back into himself, and he was nothing but pain – pain in his ribs and chest, pain from bruises, _real _pain. He drew in a great, gasping breath and tried to open his eyes.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice, coming from above him, was shaking and as scared as Dean had ever heard it. Dean managed to blink his eyes open, and his brother's face swam into view. Sam, leaning close, looked just as scared as he sounded.

Dizzy, disoriented, for a moment he didn't know whether to laugh or cry, not sure if he had the strength for either. He settled on a relieved sigh, and the tiniest of wistful smiles tugged at the corner of his mouth.

_I made it, Bridget. I'm home._

Licking dry lips, he tried out his voice. "Sammy?" It was barely a croak, though enough to bring a tired but very genuine smile to Sam's pale face.

"Dean." Sam swallowed, opened his mouth, but nothing more emerged. To Dean it looked as though his brother couldn't decide whether to simply pass out, or give Dean a hug. Finally, after another couple of swallows, Sam pulled himself together enough to say, hoarsely, "Oh, man, Dean, you really know how to scare the shit outta me." Sam's gaze flicked over him before returning to his face. "You know who I am this time," he added, almost as a question.

"Uh huh. Even know who _I_ am." Dean glanced around, taking note of the objects still bound to the bedposts, of Sam slumped on the bed next to him, of the fact that Sam continued to maintain a death grip on Dean's hand. Which was warm and sticky, and, now that he noticed it, was starting to hurt… "How long?" he asked, his breath hitching in a cough. _Crap. _He ached all over.

Sam sighed, weariness and relief written in every line of his body. "Since last night. After…after I finished the binding spell. Well, and then after you woke up and thought you were that Alex guy." He looked away, as though unable to meet Dean's eyes. "Around twelve hours."

"That all? Feels like…longer." Bridget hadn't been kidding, then, about time being different between there (wherever "there" was, somewhere in the Twilight Zone) and here. He coughed again, then winced as his ribs screamed in protest. "Knew you'd figure something out, Sammy. Ohhh…" Every muscle in his back and legs suddenly seemed to spasm at the same time.

"Dean?" Sam's voice rose again, and Dean could hear the panic underlying that single utterance.

"S'all right, Sammy," he slurred, faintly. "Just…stiff. Think I might've been dead for a while, huh?" He gave a weak laugh and felt his eyes sliding shut. "A stiff, get it?"

"Very funny," Sam returned, not laughing. "Do you…remember what happened last night?"

Dean thought about how to answer that, and then felt one of Sam's hands very carefully loosen from his own, from where it lay atop his chest. He got his eyes open again, through sheer force of will, and saw that Sam's hand was covered in blood.

"Sammy, you're hurt," he said, conveniently ignoring the question Sam had just asked.

"Just a cut. You've got one, too." Sam gently got their hands separated. "Sorry," he murmured, wincing right along with Dean, as Dean's hand jerked slightly in Sam's grasp.

Dean saw that the sharp pain in his own palm was due to a cut that matched the one Sam bore, and that his now bloodied amulet had lain crushed between them. He raised an eyebrow. "That's some mojo, Sammy…" Dean thought bleakly of falling through that darkness forever, or trapped in limbo, lost, and he said, quietly to his brother, "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Sam's grip tightened briefly on Dean's fingers. "Wasn't sure it would work," he admitted then, inspecting the wound he'd made in Dean's hand and not looking at Dean. "You…stopped breathing." Dean could feel the tremors in Sam's hand. "Thought I was too late."

"Thought I was, too," Dean said. "The late, great Dean Winchester." He gave Sam a lopsided smirk, hoping it would piss Sam off enough to make him get over being scared.

"Oh, that is so not funny." Sam glared. "Smartass."

"Jerk." Oh, it was good to be back. He struggled briefly to shift himself upright, and found he couldn't quite make it. "Sammy, help me up, huh? Been layin' here long enough."

"Are you sure –"

"I gotta pee, I need a shower, and I am _not _staying in this bed one minute longer," Dean asserted, trying to sound firm even as he fought to keep from yawning. How the hell could he be tired? He'd been unconscious or dead or something for twelve hours, or however long he'd spent with Bridget…

Sam, obviously skeptical of Dean's ability to stay awake, much less get himself on his feet, just shook his head and pulled Dean up with one strong, careful heave. Dean swung his legs off the bed and tried to stand.

"Hey," he said, looking down. "Salt." Dean gestured with a hand at the sacred objects he had already noticed bound to the bed. "Good idea."

"You're here, but not there. I can't find you." Huh, so maybe Bridget couldn't "see" me because of the protection of Sammy's circle? So I wasn't dead? Well, not much…

"Yeah, I figured it couldn't hurt," Sam was saying, looking at it as well, then leaning over to blow out the candle that flickered on the bedside table. "Are you positive _this_ is a good idea?" he went on. Sam still had a hand on Dean's forearm, which was all that was keeping Dean upright at the moment.

"No problem," Dean assured him. Gritting his teeth and swaying to his feet, a wash of dizziness nearly sent him toppling to the floor. Sam cursed, and shifted his arm to curve around Dean's waist.

"Oh, yeah, I can see you're ready to get up," he snarked.

"Quit bitching and help me," Dean grumbled back, trying to stop his stomach from turning inside out. "Or quit bitching and _don't_ help. But I _am_ getting up. Just because I was kinda not breathing for a few minutes doesn't mean I'm a complete wreck…"

Sam's arm only tightened a bit more as he helped Dean across the few feet to the bathroom. "Oh, not breathing, no heartbeat, basically unconscious for twelve hours _after_ you wake up thinking you're a dead guy, yeah, I guess you're just fine." The words came out in a snarl, the anger belied by the care with which he got Dean into the bathroom and sitting down on the closed seat of the toilet. "Not to mention that you've still got a couple of cracked ribs and a mass of bruises all over your body. I miss anything?"

"Uh –"

"Shut up." Sam had by now grabbed the med kit. After washing off his own hands and taking care of the oozing cut on the one, he turned to Dean without another word.

"I'm all right, Sammy," he protested, for the sake of protesting. "It's hardly anything, you know that."

Sam just shook his head and reached for Dean's bloodied hand, and Dean figured at this point surrender was easier, so he just sighed and let Sam set about cleaning the wound.

And he had to admit, to himself, he felt…well, numb. Thin. Hollowed out. Worn to the bone. Like he might blow away in a strong wind. Was there anything left of him? How much of his strength had Bridget stolen away in her attempt to keep him with her? How had she said it? _"…so easy to follow, to take your strength, your bright, living soul." _And the reaper? What had the reaper done to him? That night in Nebraska, when Dean had almost given in, when Death had put his mark on him… He shivered slightly, and Sam gave him a sharp look, pausing in his ministrations.

"Don't bother with a bandage, I'm gonna take a shower," he reminded Sam, attempting a distraction.

Sam just shot him another look and dabbed antiseptic over his hand, as if daring Dean to complain.

After Sam finally finished with his doctoring and could no longer find a reason to hover, Dean managed to kick him out of the bathroom so he could take a shower in peace. With a bit of distaste, he stripped out of the wrinkled clothes he'd been wearing, been sleeping in, and checked his shoulder and hip. The invisible claws that had swiped him in the dark, during the long fall, had left no outward wound, not even a scratch. But then, the bruises he had here, the cracked ribs, he hadn't felt _there_, either…

Leaning wearily against the shower wall, he stood under the hot water, letting it ease his aching muscles. Sam had saved his ass, again, dragging him out of the darkness, just like he'd dragged Dean out his nightmares… But what else had happened here last night? He realized he hadn't even asked Sam what he'd missed after Bridget had pulled him back into her long ago memories.

Nor had Sam pushed with the questions. He was acting…what, guilty? Dean frowned. What the hell was that all about? Dean was back, whatever Sam had come up with had obviously done the trick, so what was his little brother fretting over? Yeah, okay, the not breathing thing, maybe, but that was hardly Sam's fault.

He made sure to rinse both amulet and ring clean. Since the heat and the steam was beginning to make him just a bit dizzy, he turned off the water and sagged against the wall for a moment until his head cleared. Wrapping a towel around his waist, and then slapping a bandage across his still slightly bleeding palm, he thought he heard a knock on the bedroom door. When it came again, he called to Sam. No answer. So he opened the door enough to stick his head out of the bathroom, only to see Sam sprawled untidily across his bed, fast asleep.

To keep the knocker from waking up his brother, Dean made it to the door, still dripping, and opened it. Ginny was just raising her hand to knock again. She stared at him in stunned silence, and then to his complete consternation, she burst into tears.

"Ginny?"

It seemed to be his day for crying women.

"Oh my God, it worked," she gasped out. "I thought I heard Sam shouting – he did something, it worked. Oh, Dean." She wiped at her eyes. "It _is_ you? You…and not Alex Thornton?"

"It's me, Ginny, really…"

She just shook her head, reached up to take his face between her hands and pulled him close enough to place a kiss on his forehead. Mystified by this unusual display, he let her.

When she drew back, but not letting go, she sniffed and gave him a glare – which would have been more effective if she wasn't still blinking tears away. "You scared the hell out of us, young man. Don't be doing that again."

"Or you'll have me on the kitchen clean-up crew?" He felt a slow, warm smile spread across his face.

"For a year. At least." Slipping her hands away, she gave him a quick once-over, and Dean suddenly felt the distinct lack of clothing in his present situation. "Sam wasn't kidding about the bruises, was he, sweetie," she said softly, cataloging them with a sympathetic frown. He narrowed his eyes at that and resisted the temptation to cross his arms over his chest. What the hell had Sam been telling her? But she ignored his disgruntlement, and with a last light brush of her fingers across one cheek, she stepped back from him, and suddenly grinned. "But other than the bruises, you look awfully nice in a towel, Dean."

He growled and tried not to run for cover. But when he had to put out a hand to steady himself on the doorframe, her grin vanished, and she was back to her usual in-charge den mother mode.

"Should you even be up?" She was already pushing him back into the room. "What the hell, Dean, you've been out of it since last night. You still look like a few miles of bad road. How do you feel? Are you all right?" Spotting Sam, she added, "Is Sam all right?"

"I'm okay," he said, lying, he told himself, only a little. "And I think Sammy just wore himself out, doing…whatever it was he did."

Plopping down on the other bed (and carefully arranging his towel), Dean scrubbed a hand through damp hair, and watched as Ginny turned her attention to Sam, covering him up with a loose blanket.

"Poor Sam. He was up all night, I think – he's been practically out of his mind with worry about you, you know," she said, patting Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah, Sam always worries too much," Dean said absently, watching Sam sleep. _He looks about ten years old. _

Though Ginny wore that bright expression of curiosity he had come to recognize, she did not raise any questions about the events of last night. Instead, she said briskly, "You need to eat something, Dean, and drink plenty of fluids. How about some breakfast? I can bring something up, if you don't want to come downstairs yet."

Dean was still focused on Sam. "I'll be down in a little while." He tilted his chin at Sam. "I'm gonna sit with Sam for a while, make sure he's okay."

She nodded knowingly, and then grinned at him again, with those laugh lines deepening at the corners of her eyes. "But maybe you should put on a shirt if you're dining at the table."

He snorted and rolled his eyes. "I'll be down. In a shirt. Even pants."

"Oh, not on my account."

"Ginny!" A glower of mock outrage did not dampen her grin.

"What? I'm not dead. I enjoy looking." At the doorway, she did exactly that, giving Dean an appreciative leer similar to the one he had bestowed upon her the other night when she had helped him into bed. "Just because you're young enough to be one of my grad students…"

"That's it, I'm getting dressed. See you later, Ginny." He could still hear her snickering as he got up and firmly shut the door behind her. As soon as the door closed, he sagged against it, his strength gone – and no longer needing to pretend it was still there.

By the time he had finished getting dressed (avoiding t-shirt, boots and socks, going with button-down and barefoot), he noted without surprise that his jeans hung a little looser, a little lower on his hips, and that he was short of breath and sweating. He had to sit down while he waited for his heart rate to slow, and he wiped a shaky hand over his face.

"You really do look terrible, you know."

Dean flung his head up and saw Sam watching him from the bed with half-open eyes and blatant concern.

"Shit, Sammy, don't _do _that," Dean grumped. "Thought you were asleep."

Rolling over and sitting up, Sam shook his head. "Can't sleep with you blundering around. Anyway, don't change the subject."

"I'm all right." The words fell automatically from his mouth, like they always did, no matter what was bruised, broken, or what was cut and bleeding. Body or soul.

"No, I don't think so." Sam was studying him, that haunted look back in his eyes, and Dean could see the flash of fear that he tried and failed to hide. Sam's hands twisted in the bedclothes, and his glanced drifted away from Dean to gaze blindly out the window.

The denial was on the tip of his tongue. But Sam wasn't an idiot, and at the moment, Dean didn't think Sam would believe a word that came out of his mouth. His usual act of careless nonchalance wouldn't work. Unfortunately, his other option, getting up and walking out, felt far beyond him as well. And Sam was pale; his eyes were dark with exhaustion, his body tense, and Dean had already hurt Sam enough by getting hurt himself far too much lately. So Dean, with far more patience than normal, kept his mouth shut and waited for Sam to spill whatever it was that was bothering him.

"Dean," Sam finally blurted in a rush, "I'm sorry, I screwed up the binding spell. It's my fault you got trapped. I did something wrong, I must've, and then I fired rock salt into her, and…and I just got you hurt again."

So that was it.

Shaking his head, Dean said, "Sam, no. You didn't screw up. The spell worked just the way it was supposed to. Besides, you got me out again. You and your psychic boy superpowers. Couldn't have done it without ya, bro."

"But it's my fault you were there in the first place!" Sam cried. "And then when you woke up, and thought you were this Alex Thornton guy – well, shit, Dean…"

"Listen to me," Dean said, leaning forward, and speaking carefully, intently. "You did not screw up. Hear me? What happened was because of…her. She was already in my head, Sam, and when the binding spell grabbed her, it dragged me right along with it. You had no way of knowing that. Hell, _I _didn't know it, either, until later. So stop beating yourself up, okay? Jesus, Sam," he sighed, falling back into the chair again, "get over it already, will ya? I'm here, everything's all right, and Alex Thornton ain't comin' back into my head ever again, okay?"

"How do you know that?" Sam challenged him, anguished eyes finally turning back to Dean's. "What the hell happened to you, Dean? What's going on?" He shuddered, and wrapped his arms around his upraised knees. "You quit breathing. You said you were in some cold place. You asked me not to leave you there, just like you did in that nightmare last night… And then somewhere out in the dark. Where _were _you?"

Dean sorted through the questions, wondering which one to answer first, if any of them, and settled instead on asking, "What nightmare?"

"Don't _do _that!" Sam said, tossing his hands up in obvious frustration. "What happened? Who is this spirit? Why did you wake up thinking you were Alex Thornton? What's her connection with him?"

"Oh, Sammy." Dean sighed tiredly and kneaded his forehead with one hand. "It's kind of…complicated." He held up his hand to forestall another bout of questions. "Just…give me a minute here, okay? It was…hard." Looking up, he caught Sam's stare, but his brother gave him a nod. Shit. Where to start, how much to say, how to keep Sam from getting any more pissed off at him, or scared for him… _Stick with the facts, Dean. _He kept his eyes on his loosely clasped hands, his thumb brushing idly across the silver ring on his finger. "Alex Thornton was her husband," he began. "He was killed in the Civil War –"

"1864," Sam put in. "We…found him. Um, sorry," he added, as Dean flicked a glance at him. "Keep going."

"But before he left, he told her he'd come back. He promised. Well, he never did, of course, and she's still waiting. That's why she's here." Dean shrugged. "That's her story."

"That's it?" Sam was giving him an incredulous stare. "Not good enough, Dean. I mean, come on, who the hell is she? This bitch has been screwing with your memory, hurting you, making you think you're some dead guy…" Sam's face took on an expression Dean couldn't read at all. "We found Alex Thornton. We found a photo of him, in an old album. It's…pretty damn weird, Dean. You look…just like him."

Dean felt a jolt at that. It was one thing to hear Bridget say he resembled her husband, but to have visual proof, that was just…yeah, damn weird.

"But we found no mention anywhere, in all that junk we dragged out of the house, of him ever having been married," Sam went on.

"He was her husband, trust me, okay?" Elbows on knees, he dropped his head in his hands, weary and drained, aware of an ache starting up behind his eyes. "Sammy… Jesus, Sammy, it's just… Dammit."

"Dean? You all right?" Sam scrambled suddenly off the bed and was kneeling beside his chair, a cautious hand on Dean's leg.

"Yeah," Dean sighed. His head came up. "Yeah, Sammy. Her name is…was Bridget O'Connor. They got married in 1860, and his parents didn't approve." He could hear Bridget, sad and distant as she told her tale. "I'm guessing…maybe they didn't want any evidence of their fair-haired boy getting involved with the wrong kind of woman. He went off to war, he died – okay, you said 1864? She died – I don't know how, or when, and she's waiting for him. She's…lost, Sam. Lost and alone and afraid." He had to take a deep breath and steady his voice. "When she saw us…me, in the house, she took me for him, just for a moment."

"And because she liked what she saw when you showed up, she just decided to…what? Hijack your consciousness? Make you into Alex because you look like him?" Sam's hand on Dean's knee tightened into a fist. "She wanted you to _be_ him, didn't she?"

"She did, but not anymore. She let me go, Sam. She knew she was hurting me, and she let me go."

"Huh," Sam snorted in disbelief, at last letting go of Dean to get up and sit in the other chair. "Where _were_ you?" he asked again. "Not here, that's for sure."

"Hell, Sam, I don't know. It was her house, but, dude, we're talking Twilight Zone here, another reality, dimension, whatever. Her memories. I don't know," he repeated, flapping a hand in the air. "She can't leave it, she's afraid to, she's afraid of the dark outside. She was afraid when I left…"

"I'm sorry for that, but honestly, at this point I don't care about her!" Sam cried. "I care about you! What's to stop her from snatching you back again? We've got to find her body and find it fast – you know that. Maybe she let you go this time, or you got away, but crap, Dean," his voice rose, "you up and freakin' _died _on me." Then he added, in quiet horror more to himself than Dean, "Again."

"I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered. "I didn't… I tried…"

"Dean, I'm hardly blaming you," Sam said, still quiet.

Dean worked hard to dredge up a smile. "But you got me out, Sam. I jumped, that's all I did, but you found me." He looked down at his bandaged hand, and clenched it into an aching fist. "How did you figure that one out, anyway?"

"Um," Sam fidgeted slightly. "I called Missouri. She gave me the idea."

"Well, how 'bout that," Dean said, raising an eyebrow, trying to shift the mood. "She even helped after finding out it was me you had to rescue? Thought she hated me."

"She doesn't hate you," Sam said.

"Right."

Sam broke the silence before it could stretch out any further. "Sooooooo…" he drawled, "how _did_ you manage to get her to let you go? Used that ol' Dean Winchester charm on her, huh? Smiled? Asked for her phone number?"

"Yeah." Dean smiled, wearily, sadly. "Something like that, I guess."

"Well, whatever, glad it worked."

"Yeah," Dean said again, his head lolling to one side.

"Dean?"

Dean blinked, opened his heavy eyes, and tried to focus his vision. Sam was leaning over him again, peering into his face.

"Sammy, what? Quit worryin,' okay?"

"Maybe," came the tight response. "When I believe you're really all right. You're overdue for some painkillers, and you need to eat. Here." Sam was holding a glass of water – where had that come from? – to his lips, and he had put two white pills in Dean's hand. "Come on, drink 'em down. Are you warm enough? Do you want to borrow a sweatshirt? You're not wearing any socks –"

"I'm all right, Sam. Cut it out."

"Well, I seem to recall you making sure I got dressed okay."

"Yeah, when you were five."

"Okay, it's my turn then."

"Smartass," Dean sighed.

"Uh huh, takes one to know one, and all that. All right, I'll go get us some breakfast."

Dean grimaced at the pills; but he did hurt, dammit, so he swallowed them down with some of the water. Then he shook his head at Sam. "I'm coming with you. Gotta get out of this room. I'll be fine in a minute." He sighed. "Let's go find the Scooby Gang, huh? I s'pose we gotta fill 'em in on things. And Ginny's expecting me downstairs –"

"Wait, you talked to Ginny?"

"She came in while you were crashed for your ten-minute beauty sleep." Finishing off the water, he added, "She likes me in a towel."

Sam just rolled his eyes. "All right, Playgirl Pin-up of the Month, let's go eat."

xxxxx

In what had become an all far too familiar routine, Sam stuck close to Dean's side as they headed downstairs, no matter how much Dean may have grumbled. Not that he really meant it, and Sam just ignored him anyway. Dean was not especially looking forward to meeting the others face to face this morning, not after last night's drama. If Ginny's reaction was anything to go by, he might have to endure about a year's worth of chick flick moments, all crammed into a mere few minutes.

At Dean's prodding, Sam had quickly filled him in on what had happened at the Thornton house after Dean collapsed. His brother had glossed over what Dean was sure the worst of it – for Sam, at any rate – and simply told him they had had enough time to get what they came for. Dean remembered waking up as Alex, afterwards, seeing the look of loss and pain that had crossed his brother's face when Dean hadn't known him; and then the terror of Bridget furiously ripping him away again, away from Sam…

" …and then Ian and I lugged you upstairs, and I put the circle around you. We kept looking for…her, but didn't find anything. It's like she never even existed, Dean."

"That was probably the idea," Dean said, thinking back to what Bridget had told him, about Alex's parents even forbidding their daughter to talk to her. Maybe they even had something to do with her death. Maybe he should dig up Papa Thornton while he was at it, take care of _his _bones…

The reception that greeted them in the dining room was almost as bad as Dean had steeled himself for, but at least no one tried to hug him – possibly because Ginny had spilled how truly spectacular his bruises were. But there were tears and smiles from the two girls, and even Ian's eyes glinted suspiciously bright as he gave Dean a nod from across the table.

He wasn't sure how food would settle in his stomach, but he managed some toast and orange juice, mostly because both Sam and Ginny were watching and trying not to.

When it looked like everyone was done eating, Ginny suggested moving to the living room.

"I know Sam probably told you what we found, but we'd like to show you and see what you think, if you can add anything."

No one was talking about Alex Thornton yet, or his brief appearance last night in the form of Dean. And he was more than grateful for that. They had all seen him vulnerable, seen him weakened by what Bridget had done to him, and he felt horribly self-conscious in front of them, his carefully constructed defenses stripped bare. The whole incident was all too raw yet, like a wound that had yet to scab over and heal.

Some unspoken consent among the others left Dean with the couch, and he tried not to sink too gratefully into the deep cushions. Sam sat at the opposite end, his feet on the low table, not crowding him but close enough as though he thought Dean might tip over at any given second.

Dean told them pretty much what he'd told Sam, giving them the bare bones of the story. He tried to keep his distance, to remain emotionally detached as he spoke, but all he could see was Bridget's face. The fear in her eyes as he had flung himself out the door of her house.

"And that's why she's still here," he said, knowing he sounded tired but couldn't help it. "Has been, really, just waiting for him to come back, but she wasn't haunting the place until – well, something disturbed her."

"So," Ginny said thoughtfully, "she just…told you all this? Ah, I mean, you know, talking with ghosts is possible?"

Dean looked askance at her. "Yeah, it is. But the first person to make Jennifer Love Hewitt jokes –" his glance slid to Sam – "will, I promise you, die a slow and painful death."

Ginny raised her hands as the others laughed, easing some of the tension that had fallen in the room since Dean had begun talking. "Not me, Dean. No jokes, cross my heart." She nodded at Lissa. "You found the first piece of evidence, Lissa, why don't you show Dean his twin."

Lissa silently reached into a folder and leaned across to hand Dean the old sepia photo they had found. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as he took it in his hand and gazed down at the strangely familiar features, features that belonged to a man dead these many decades, dead and buried. Even though he was expecting it, even though Bridget had mistaken him at first for her husband and told him of the resemblance, it was still a shock to look at Alex Thornton in his officer's uniform of Confederate gray and see himself.

That old saying about someone having just walked over his grave came to mind, and he knew he hadn't been able to repress a shiver.

"Pretty weird, huh?" Lissa said, softly.

"Uh, yeah," Dean answered, still staring. He could hear Bridget's longing voice in his head. He could remember the feelings and memories she had for Alex, of Alex, when she had tried to make _him _be Alex. _She loved you so much,_ he thought, looking at the man in the picture, and he had to blink away the sting of sudden tears at the corners of his eyes. _Lucky bastard. _

"No wonder she fancied you," said Ian.

"So," Dean said, clearing his throat. "You really think this guy looks like me, huh?"

"Oh, please," said Angie.

"Yeah, well, maybe in bad light." He squinted. "If you're squinting. Still think he's not as handsome."

Ginny let out a snort. "Doesn't matter what you think, sweetie. You're certainly close enough to the real deal for the little lady next door."

He turned the photo over, and got his second shock when he read the date. "June 22, 1861," he murmured. "Their wedding anniversary."

"What did you say?" Sam was leaning over. "Dean?"

Dean closed his eyes, sighing, and the photo slipped from his hand to flutter to the floor.

"Dean? What's wrong?" Sam's voice was tight.

"The date," he said, louder, feeling a rush of sadness. "It was their wedding anniversary."

The silence in the room was eloquent.

"Oh, God," Angie said at last, softly. "He must've sent it to her, when they couldn't be together…"

With a faint sniffle, Lissa said, "That's just too sad. Poor girl."

"Um, let's not lose sight of what we have to do here, okay?" Sam had picked up the photo and was staring at it. "We still have to find her," he said. "We have to burn her bones, or she'll be stuck here and haunting the damn house forever."

Only Dean heard the unspoken, _And hurting my brother. _

After that, Dean sort of lost track of the conversation, because he found himself sliding sideways on the couch, and it was easier to fall into darkness than to keep his eyes open any longer. But the dark wasn't cold, not with Sam there.

xxxxx

It was early afternoon when he woke, from a thankfully dreamless sleep. Someone had covered him with a blanket, and he had wound up sort of curled on the couch with his feet practically in Sam's lap. Not surprisingly, Sam had fallen asleep as well, and was also under a blanket. He looked pretty damn uncomfortable, sitting up with his head at an awkward angle. Dean almost wanted to nudge him awake with a well-placed foot, but Sam had been up practically all night; he still looked grey and pinched with exhaustion. Dean drew his foot back.

Besides, this was a perfect opportunity to go back to the Thornton house and try to find Bridget. He knew just how well_ that _plan would go over with Sam…

Okay, just a quick trip upstairs to get his boots on, maybe a jacket because he was suddenly cold, and then over to the house. How hard could that be?

He made it all the way to their room, and back, panting only slightly from the effort, and was nearly out the door when Sam said from somewhere behind him, "Where do you think you're going?"

Dean turned slowly. Sam stood there in the hallway, still rubbing sleep and floppy bangs out of his eyes, and he did not appear pleased.

"Um, outside," Dean said.

"How far?"

Dean sighed. _Busted. _"Across the street." He waited for Sam's reaction, and Sam did not disappoint.

"Back to that house?" Sam stared. "Are you crazy? Or are you Alex Thornton? What the hell, Dean, what's going on?"

"Sammy…"

"Don't 'Sammy' me, you jackass. Tell me what you think you can do going back in there. Besides get hurt again."

"I promised, Sam." Dean let out a slow breath. "I promised her I'd come back, to see if…well, to see if I could help her. She's scared, that's all. She's alone."

"I don't care, Dean!" Sam shouted, moving closer until he was nearly in Dean's face. "We are going to find her, burn her bones into dust, and that will be the end of it. She won't be lonely after that."

"Sammy," Dean tried again, "we don't have a freakin' clue where she's…buried." _Why did it hurt so much to say that?_ "She came close to telling me, but she's scared." He remembered every word she said, and what she hadn't said, and he thought he could read between the lines here. "Come on, let's at least go outside so the whole damn house doesn't hear us yelling at each other. Okay?"

Sam grumbled, but followed as Dean led the way out to the lawn chairs in the backyard and sat down.

"All right, I assume you've got some sort of half-assed plan. Convince me." Sam settled in and waited.

"We need to find her, right? Well, so far, we got jack." Dean knew his instincts were right; but he had to prove it to Sam, so he picked his words carefully. "No records of her in the family history, you guys couldn't find anything. I think…something happened to her and the family covered it up. Or maybe just ignored it. Anyway, with Alex dead, why should they bother to worry about some poor Irish shopgirl" – he could hear Bridget's lilting accent as he said that – "without any other family? She didn't matter to them."

"You sound like you feel…sorry for her," Sam said. "After what she did to you…"

Dean shrugged wearily. "Remember when I said it was complicated? And hard? Sammy, I know it sounds crazy, I know that, but…we have to help her. I need to talk to her, and that means I need to go in the house. I think she wants to…leave, but she doesn't know how."

"Because she's scared," Sam repeated back to him.

"Yeah. I think whatever happened to her, didn't happen in the house. She feels safest there. I got a hunch she's somewhere on the grounds. Or hell," he tossed his hands in the air and shrugged again, "maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. But it just _feels _like that, Sam. Please, you gotta trust me, here."

"I trust you," Sam said slowly, "but I wonder how much of _you _is believing this, or if it's still leftover Alex in your head. You almost sound like you're in love with this woman, Dean."

Dean was perhaps a little too quiet just a moment too long.

"You are, aren't you?"

"No, no, of course not," he murmured. He raised his eyes to Sam. "It doesn't matter, anyway. We have to find her. So I'm going to go back in the house. Come or not, I don't care."

"Oh, I'm coming with you, don't you worry. But I'm coming prepared."

Ten minutes later, Dean stood on the sidewalk in front of the Thornton house and tried one more time to reason with Sam, who just shook his head.

"You're not going into that house without me, Dean," Sam insisted.

"And you're not coming in with that," Dean countered, pointing at the shotgun loaded with rock salt. "She's not gonna hurt me, Sammy, you don't need the firepower."

"Yeah, right. All I've ever seen her do is hurt you. Indulge me."

"I mean it, Sam, stay here, or leave the shotgun."

"No."

Dean wanted to grind his teeth in frustration and throw something. Sam wanted to do nothing but protect him, Dean knew that, but he didn't need protecting, not from Bridget. But they were wasting time out here arguing, and Sam could rise to the occasion when he had to and be just as stubborn as Dean.

The staring match ended abruptly when Dean's knees buckled. Sam quickly grabbed his arm to keep him from falling to the ground and hauled him upright. Dean had to fist both hands in Sam's jacket long enough to get his knees locked and even then he felt unsteady, his breath rasping loud as he struggled to maintain his balance.

"That's it," Sam said flatly. "You can't even stand up on your own. I'd prefer you to stay out of the damn place, but if you insist on going in there like the idiot you are, I'm going with you, and I'm taking a loaded shotgun. End of story."

"Fine," Dean snapped, or tried to. It came out sounding more like a petulant, exhausted whine, only further intensified when he let go of Sam to turn his back and climb the stairs. Too bad he couldn't stomp, but that was a little hard when it was all he could do to haul himself up using the railing.

"Idiot," he heard Sam mutter. He wondered briefly if Sam meant him, for going in, or Sam for following.

The door was still unlocked from last night's foray, and Dean stepped inside with an odd sense of coming home. He shook his head, as though trying to dislodge a stray memory. Sam noticed his pause, however, and gave him a questioning lift of one eyebrow.

"You okay?" he asked, very quietly.

"Fine."

Dean walked into the front sitting room, his gaze first falling on the salt circle and chalked symbols still on the floor. Then as he stood there longer, it was as though he could see the room with two sets of eyes, looking at two different layers of reality. He took a step to avoid a table that wasn't there, and saw the loveseat instead of the longer couch. Blinking, he thought he saw Bridget sitting there, faint and misty, a smile on her face. But maybe he was just remembering…

"Dean?"

Sam again, with a hand on Dean's arm, steadying him.

"It's all right, Sam, just kinda…weird, you know?" Dean tried squinting. "Like I got double vision or something." Or else he just needed lots more sleep.

Sam had drawn out the EMF detector from his pocket, and held it out. "Nothing," he said, turning slowly. Then, "Maybe…" A little flicker of red.

"Bridget?" Dean called, not too loudly. "Bridget, are you here? I came back, like I promised." He made a slow circuit of the room, watching, listening. "Come on, Bridget, talk to me. Sam and I want to help you."

"Dean?" Sam said, also in a low voice, "I'm getting some stronger readings here."

Dean swung back to look for the ghostly loveseat. No sign of her. "Bridget?" He tipped his head to one side, straining his senses. "Come on, sweetheart…"

He very carefully avoided looking at Sam right at that moment. But he could feel Sam's eyes boring into the back of his head.

She was here; he could _feel_ it. A slight drop in temperature, the scent of roses… Then he turned, and saw her. She was standing behind Sam, and when Sam saw where Dean's gaze was focused, he turned as well and backed up closer to Dean. Here, in _this_ house, she was not the warm, flesh and blood woman who had wrapped him in her arms. Here she was a shadow, but this time at least, she had a form, not just the white mist they had seen that first night.

She stood and looked at him with a hopeful, yearning expression, but when she saw Sam, that look turned to one of hesitation and almost fear; and Dean saw that Sam had carefully made sure that the shotgun was ready to bear.

"Bridget," Dean said, and her blue eyes flickered over to him. Then that sweet smile blossomed on her face, and she drifted closer, her attention clearly focused on him. He wasn't even sure if she would be able to talk to him here, but he knew he'd been right to come back. "Bridget, can you hear me? Can you talk to me?"

Her mouth moved, but he heard no sound. He saw his own name on her lips, and she held out a hand to him. She spoke again, but it was like the wind sighing in the trees, a whisper, and she frowned in annoyance and frustration. Then, with such a look of intense concentration on her face that reminded him of Sam in a library he had to smile, she crossed her arms in front of her, and spoke his name one more time.

"_Dean," _she breathed, and he heard it, his name floating from her lips, and he grinned at her in delight. She grinned back, and though she tried to say something else, it was too much effort for her here. The grin slipped a little, and she cocked her head at him, a clear invitation to come closer.

"Dean," Sam warned, "don't let her touch you." The EMF detector was back in his pocket, and he cradled the shotgun in both hands.

"She's not gonna hurt me, Sam." Dean moved toward her, and he put out his right hand to meet hers. He felt a brief chill as his hand passed through hers, but he saw a sudden vivid image in his mind of her, standing in this room as it once was. She was trying to show him something… "Bridget, what was that? Show me again," he urged.

She nodded her understanding, and this time reached forward with both hands as though to grasp his. The longer contact gave him more of the vision, and he reeled under the emotions buried beneath it. Fear, anger, hopelessness… He couldn't take it all in.

"Dean, get away from her," Sam said fiercely. _"Now."_

"Sam, she's just trying to show me…what happened, I think… Ohhh," he held his head as the images coursed through his mind. He fell to his knees, and she floated down next to him, and wrapped her ethereal arms around him. She was cold, like before, when she'd been nothing but mist and had pinned him against the door. But she wasn't hurting him this time. The memories continued to pour through him until he thought he was drowning. It was the same as when she had wanted him to be Alex…

"Dean. Please. Move away."

Dean looked up in dazed confusion, unable to move a muscle.

"Get away from my brother." Sam was pointing the shotgun at her. His face was cold and implacable, his eyes dark. "You've hurt him enough."

Bridget was shaking her head, hands out in front of her, protesting in silence. But instead of moving away from Dean, she tried to get behind him as he crouched on the floor. The visions abruptly cut off and he swayed, putting a hand on the floor to steady himself.

"Stop now, I'm warning you." The shotgun followed her progress. Dean saw Sam's finger tightening on the trigger.

"Sam, no!" Dean shouted, his mind clearing enough to see the danger. He lunged clumsily to his feet, aiming for Sam, trying to push the shotgun up and out of the way, but his failing strength betrayed him. All he managed to do was deflect it slightly, and his usual lithe agility was hardly in evidence – he wound up tripping gracelessly and getting in the way instead. He saw the horrified expression on Sam's face when his brother realized it was too late. Sam had already pulled the trigger.

The resulting noise was near deafening in the small room.

For the second time in just a few short weeks, Sam had shot his brother at near point-blank range with a rock salt-loaded shotgun.

TBC…


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Time slowed. Or maybe even stopped.

He saw Sam's wide eyes, horrified, the look of shock and despair on his face overwhelming all else. His brother let out a howl that might have been Dean's name, a long, drawn-out cry, almost inhuman.

A wave of cold seared through him, making him gasp. A fading voice that only he could hear whispered his name. A brief touch caressed his cheek. Dean fell, forever, again, body clenched in agonized anticipation of the pain that he knew would soon follow – familiar, burning pain, a scattershot of fire across his chest to punch the breath from his lungs. He was flying, falling and falling, hearing the echo of the shot and Sam's scream, and –

Time resumed.

He hit the floor, hard, slid and tumbled, and immediately curled up on one side, moaning, cradling his ribs. _Okay, that pain definitely feels familiar…_

"_Dean!" _

Through slitted eyes, he watched as Sam stumbled to his knees, ungainly, awkward, and saw him pitch the shotgun aside with a sickened grimace, saw it land forgotten under a chair, before his brother started to crawl those long few feet over to Dean's side. Dean's eyes slammed shut again as he concentrated on breathing.

The chaotic fragments of memories that Bridget had loosed upon him had ripped through his mind like so many tossed and discarded photographs, like shards of broken glass, edges sharp and raw. As they faded in their burning intensity, he struggled to lock them away in some dark corner of his mind until he was ready to deal with them. And he knew it would have to be all too soon. But it was all he could do to hang on to the here and now, like a man scrabbling at a rock wall with his fingertips… The effort left him sweating, with a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes. He thought surely his soul must have been bleeding… But he could feel the reality of the pain in his ribs; he could hear Sam. He clung to both like a lifeline.

Sam. Voice high and tight and scared. Guilty, all over again. _Not your fault, Sam. Not_ _before, not this time either._

"…oh shit oh shit oh shit. Dean, oh Jesus, Dean, I didn't mean to, please be all right…"

Shaking, careful hands on Dean's shoulder then, beneath his head, turning him over and lifting him slightly, holding him. Trembling fingers slipped under Dean's jacket, skated across his shirt, hesitantly checking for damage.

"Let me see, let me see," Sam kept repeating, breathless, trying to ease Dean's arms away from around his ribs.

"Sam," he coughed. _God, was that his voice?_ "Sammy, stop." He sucked in a breath, wheezing. "It's all right, I'm…okay." He blinked up at Sam, who stared down at him with dark haunted eyes in a bloodless face.

"Dean?" Sam said faintly, his hand stilling on Dean's chest. "Shut up. You're not okay." He licked his lips. "I just…shot you. At point-blank range." Dean could feel the shudder, and heard the silent, _Again. _

"Dude, your aim sucks." Dean coughed again, wincing at the spiking agony that resulted in his oft damaged and oh so tender ribs. But no stinging fire in his chest, not this time. "You…missed by a freakin' mile. Thought Dad…taught you better than that."

"How could I miss? Dean, you were right in front of me!"

"Sammy, look." Dean managed, finally, to move one arm away. "I'm not hurt." His breathing began to ease. "No blood, okay? Are you even…paying attention here?" Dean tried to shift, to get out of his undignified position of nearly lying in Sam's lap.

Sam just tightened his hold. But at least he was actually looking at Dean, eyes swiftly scanning for wounds, for torn and bloodied flesh.

"I…missed?" Disbelief, slowly ebbing, replaced by a long relieved sigh. He turned his head to swipe a hand across his eyes. "I missed."

At least the expression of outright horror was gone. Normally, Dean would have gotten a kick out of the complete bewilderment and the _What the fuck, Dean? _look on his little brother's face, but Sam was still too shaken up to take advantage of – that could wait for later.

Dean grunted and tried one more time to sit up. "Come on, let me up already. I'm okay. So, hey, Sammy," _grunt, _ "do you mind?"

Yet another detailed and disbelieving study of Dean's intact shirt ensued before Sam grudgingly agreed that no, Dean was _not_ sporting wounds caused by a hail of rock salt; and that, yes, he could sit up now. At least some color was finally returning to Sam's face. As he levered Dean up off his legs, Dean helped, somewhat, with one hand braced on the floor, and the other on Sam's shoulder. He leaned, just for a moment, and Sam leaned, just for a moment, and Dean wasn't quite sure who was propping up whom.

"So," Sam said quietly, wrung out. "What the fuck, Dean? Why aren't you full of holes? Not that I'm complaining," he added.

"I ain't either, Sammy, trust me."

"But…I didn't miss, Dean," he repeated, doggedly, and Dean could see from his tightened expression that Sam was pulling the trigger again, his mind replaying the scene. Over and over. Sam shook his head. "I mean, I _missed, _but…you were right in front of me."

"Uh, well." Dean craned his head around, knowing the answer even as he posed the question. "Bridget's gone, isn't she?"

"Huh?" Sam gave him an _Are you insane? _(or maybe it was a _Who cares?_) look, and said, "You're worried about _her?"_

Dean used Sam's shoulder again, this time to shove himself somewhat precariously to his feet. The room tilted, just a bit. Dean closed his eyes and fought for balance. "Sam, she did…something." _A wave of cold, burning through him. _"I think…she pushed me out of the way."

"Oh, come on…" The disbelief was back, along with a flare of anger.

Dean heard Sam get to his feet, to come and stand beside him, felt his brother's shoulder bump against him. He opened his eyes, steady once more.

"No, really, think about it." Dean surveyed the pale green wall – and the narrowly missed rather nice oil landscape – that had taken the brunt of the shotgun blast, and tried to hide the shudder from Sam. "I fell right into the shot, Sam, just as you pulled the trigger. I _should _be a messy heap on the floor. How else can you explain it? She pushed me, and got in the way instead. She's gone."

"Too bad it's not permanent," Sam muttered sourly. "And yeah, she did something all right. She thoroughly messed with your head again."

Ignoring that last comment, Dean continued to eye the wall with somewhat morbid fascination. "You better stop putting holes in Ginny's house, or she's gonna start charging us for damages." Then he suddenly found his vision darkening at the edges, and he must have started to tip because he felt Sam take hold of his elbow.

"Come on," Sam said quietly. "We're leaving."

He began tugging Dean toward the door, and Dean stumbled slightly, put a hand to his pounding head, and wearily decided to let Sam be in charge this once. He needed his strength to simply put one foot in front of the other.

"Shotgun?" he asked suddenly, as he continued to focus on remaining upright.

"I'll come back for it," Sam said, short and sharp.

"'kay," Dean agreed. Sure, why not… _Left foot, right foot, um, left foot. See? I can do this…_

"Dean? Steps."

"Uh huh." Dimly taking note of Sam's left hand moving from his elbow to around his waist and hooking in his belt, Dean added, "I can do steps, Sam. Really." He tried to sound reasonable about it, and not pissed off.

"Sure you can, Dean," Sam agreed, sounding far too reasonable. "Come on, just three more… There you go."

"She wasn't…trying to hurt me," he said, his voice faint, his head falling sideways just enough to see Sam's face. "I remember who I am. She was just trying to show me what happened… I'm all right, Sam."

"No, you're not, but let's talk about it later," was all Sam said, now bearing more of Dean's weight as they made their way down the front sidewalk toward the gate.

He had to shut his eyes and swallow against the rising nausea. "Okay," he panted. "Later's good." His own silent admission as to how much he hurt was to get a firm grip on the sleeve of Sam's jacket.

A few steps later, his eyes flew open again at the sound and unmistakable fury of one Dr. Virginia Lewis, storming their way. Dean clearly heard his name more than once as she strode, full steam ahead, ponytail bobbing, up the sidewalk – or maybe warpath – to meet them. Sam stopped, wary and waiting. Dean hung a little in his grasp and tried to regain his footing at the abrupt halt. He traded an alarmed look with Sam, winced, and braced himself for the onslaught. Suddenly his headache and churning stomach faded to mere inconveniences compared with the wrath of near-Biblical proportions currently bearing down upon them.

"Dean Winchester!" she shouted as she drew closer. "I knew you were a pigheaded, stubborn young fool, but I thought you'd _at least _have the God-given good sense not to go back in that damn house! What do we have to do, tie you to the damn bed?"

_I am so not touching that line, she will kill me; I am keeping my mouth shut, I promise…_

She stopped in front of them, hands on hips, and stared at him with white-knuckled fury and what he could readily identify as ill-concealed anxiety and fear. "Wipe that smirk off your face, young man. I am _not _amused by this little stunt, do you hear me?" Turning her attention to Sam, thus allowing Dean to sag for a second and attempt to wipe off a smirk he was pretty sure he wasn't even making in the first place, she went on with a poke to Sam's chest. "And _you, _Samuel Winchester! You're even worse!"

Dean found it a definite struggle to keep the smirk away at that. A warning jab in the ribs from Sam's hand, the one wound in his belt, only made it harder.

"Ginny –" was as far as a chastened Sam got.

"No! I understand that Dean might not exactly be clear-headed after everything that happened last night, but you should know better!" She threw her hands in the air, as though amazed by their sheer stupidity. _"What the hell were you boys thinking?"_

"Ginny," Dean started, not sure how to avert her ire, but somehow oddly touched by it. "I'm sorry, we didn't mean to…scare you."

She searched his face, and Sam's, and some of the anger – and fear – faded a bit. With a deep sigh, she cocked her head at them. "You boys…" Her voice grew quiet. "You scared the hell out of me. When Lissa said she'd seen you leave the house, I thought you were safe and sound in the backyard. Silly me." The voice started to scale up again. "Imagine my surprise when I don't find you there, and then I hear what sounds like a car backfiring, but of course it's really another goddamn gunshot, so naturally I know it has to be you two!"

Dean lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "It was my idea –"

"Of course it was, you idiot," she snapped. "What about the gunshot?"

Dean felt Sam flinch.

"An accident," he said quickly. "It's all right. _We're_ all right. Really." He crossed the fingers of one hand behind his back and tried for earnest and reassuring – even though Sam was better at the big puppy eyes and begging for forgiveness act.

Ginny appeared to contemplate that for a moment, not taking her eyes off his, then reached up to pat him on the cheek. "And that look of wide-eyed beguiling innocence won't work on me, sweetie. I know you too well. Besides, you look like shit, Dean."

Sam bit back a laugh. Dean elbowed him in the side.

"I'm all right!" he protested.

"Yeah," came the dry rejoinder. "That's why you boys are staggering down this sidewalk like a pair of drunks."

"Are not!"

"Oh, give it up. Let's go home." Positioning herself on Dean's other side, she refrained from putting an arm around him; she just stuck close as they started walking again, slowly. "Okay, and this is no doubt a stupid question, but what in God's name possessed you – okay, sorry," she grimaced, "bad choice of word there. What made you think it was a good idea to go back inside that place? For crying out loud, haven't you had enough?"

Dean was back to an acute awareness of his pounding headache. He squinted at her, eyes narrowed against the pain and the suddenly over-bright sunlight. "How about I answer that later?" he asked, echoing Sam. He faltered, Sam's grip adjusted accordingly, and Ginny took his other arm.

"Sure, sweetie," she said. "Later is fine."

xxxxx

As Sam half-carried his brother back to the house with Ginny, he couldn't help but notice, not for the first time in the last day or two, that Dean felt…lighter. He'd grown thin, that had been evident over the past month, but suddenly, he just seemed to be not so much muscle and mass but bone and air. As though Dean could simply drift away, away from Sam, with barely a ripple, and he would be gone…

And Sam had very nearly hurt him. Again. Trying to protect him.

Sam felt his finger pull the trigger, the split second of frozen horror when he realized –too late – that Dean had fallen in the line of fire; he saw Dean hit the floor, to lie in a heap, and Sam had stared, shaking, numb with what he had just done.

Only he hadn't, apparently. Thanks to _her. _He supposed he should be grateful. But she'd hurt Dean so much already that he found it hard to feel much of anything but anger toward her.

His arm tightened, just a little, from where it rested around Dean's waist (but being careful, always careful of the bruises, the cracked ribs, a delicate balance), and looked down at his brother's drooping head. He couldn't see much of Dean's face, just an angle of jaw and cheekbone, a crescent of eyelashes. Dean's feet were moving, but Sam was pretty sure his brother wasn't fully conscious. Moving because he knew he had to, despite the pain. That was Dean, all right.

A pensive Ginny walked on Dean's other side, her arm through his. "Good grief, you two," she murmured. "I think you've put about ten years on me in the last few days. Good thing I never had kids. I'd be a _terrible _parent."

Sam grinned, in spite of himself. "You'd make a great mom, Ginny."

She snorted. "No thanks. I'll stick with grad students. At least they're already grown up. Mostly."

Sam just laughed, then saved the rest of his breath for carrying his brother up the front steps and into their house.

Once inside, they moved automatically for the living room, and encountered none of the students. ("Girls went grocery shopping," Ginny informed him. "Ian's at the library.") Sam gently lowered Dean to lie sideways on the couch, half on, half off, his feet dangling. Dean's eyes stayed shut, his head lolled, and Sam figured he was probably pretty well out. _But not shot full of rock salt, not bleeding. _Even with his eyes open, Sam could see Dean in that damn asylum, bloodied, hurt, lying on the floor, and Sam standing over him with a gun, ready and willing to fire, mocking and hateful… With a deep breath, he tried to quell the tremor in his hands, and forced himself to banish the image from his mind. He sank down onto the other end of the couch, and glanced at his brother. No wounds, no blood. Not this time.

But he still wasn't all right.

Ginny had actually gone and shut the door into the hallway, despite having the house to themselves. As she turned around, she had her hands on her hips again, a pointed stare directed at Sam.

Sam cringed. _Yeah, way to go, Dean, _he thought. _It was your half-assed plan, but look who's unconscious and unable to answer questions. You so owe me._

"All right, Sam, please tell me what you boys thought you could accomplish by going back into Hell House over there?" She came over and sat down in a chair by the couch, still pinning Sam with a glare.

"Dean had this crazy idea…" he started.

"Wasn't crazy," came a hoarse voice. "Worked, didn't it?" Dean's dazed green eyes blinked up at them.

Sam felt a knot unwind slightly from somewhere.

"If this is how your plans turn out when they work, sweetie, I'd hate to see how you look when they don't." Ginny's words may have been dryly sarcastic, but neither the tone nor the look she bestowed upon Dean was; she leaned forward and tapped him lightly on the head. "Quit scaring me, brat."

"Sure you don't have kids?" Dean said faintly. He started to push himself up on an elbow, but quickly lost whatever color remained in his face, and eased down to the cushions again. "Shit," he muttered, closing his eyes.

"Let that be a lesson to you, then. And no, my thankfully departed ex-husband and I never had kids. Anyway, weren't you too far gone to hear that conversation?"

"Not quite. So… Ex, huh?" Dean's grin was more of a grimace, but it got the point across. "What'd you do to him?"

Ginny rolled her eyes at Sam. Sam grinned back.

"_He _suffered a delayed midlife crisis, and started sleeping with one – or possibly more – of his twenty-something-year-old grad students."

"Ouch," Sam winced. "Sorry."

"He musta been nuts," Dean mumbled.

"Why, thank you, sweetie," she said, smiling, patting his hair. "But I really should've known better. After all, _I _was one of his twenty-something-year-old grad students when he started sleeping with _me."_

"Ouch," said Sam, again, unable to hold back another sympathetic groan – and a grin.

"Yeah, no kidding." She waved an airy hand. "The old bastard and I still run into each other once in a while, small world and all that, but I dumped him flat and everybody knows it."

Dean snorted, and got his eyes open again and almost focused. "Good for you. You know, Sam and I could take care of him, if you like. Feed him to zombies, or conjure up a nice little succubus…"

"Ah, thanks for the offer, sweetie, but don't try to change the subject here."

"What…subject?" Dean tried sitting up again, and since Sam knew his stubborn idiot of a brother wouldn't stay down, he just sighed to himself and leaned over to help. "Thanks," Dean said, startled, as Sam tugged him upright and Dean got his feet fully on the floor.

"You're welcome. Don't throw up and make me regret it."

"Dude, I will _not _throw up."

"Yeah, sure. At least keep it away from me –"

A clearing throat had them both whipping their heads around. Ginny stared at them with a raised eyebrow.

"Gee, sorry, Professor." Dean gave her a smirk.

"Oh, Lord," Ginny said, eyes upward. "Give me strength." She pointed a finger at Dean. "Behave. Explain. _Now."_

Dean bit his lip and actually squirmed, and shot an appealing glance at Sam. Who just shook his head, refusing to be drawn.

"Yeah, okay." He visibly pulled himself together, sat up straighter, and after some consideration, spoke in a flat, suddenly weary tone. "We need to find her…remains, of course, you know that. That's the only thing keeping her here, other than her own fear. She can't…won't go by herself. She told me enough to make me think she's…buried somewhere on the Thornton grounds. But she didn't tell me exactly. She wants to leave, she knows Alex isn't coming back now, but she's afraid. So when she let me go…" His voice trailed off, and he went so still that Sam thought maybe he'd passed out sitting up.

"It's all right, Dean," Ginny said, softly, her hand reaching out to cup the side of his face. "Take your time, or don't tell me at all. It's okay. I trust you boys, I really do, but you had me just a tad nervous…"

Sam watched in silent amazement as Dean let himself lean into her touch, his eyes closing. He'd never seen Dean let his guard down so quickly, so easily, and it shocked him at how young his brother suddenly appeared. He looked away, not sure if it was for Dean's sake or his own.

He heard Dean draw in a shaky breath.

"She was so afraid," Dean went on, quieter, regaining control, "that I told her I'd come back if I made it out. Well, thanks to Sammy, there, I did. I figured I could reach her somehow, if I went back to the house. She showed up, and she did that memory thing –"

"And _that's _what you went back in for?" Ginny interrupted, aghast. "Deliberately? So she could scramble your brains again? Dean, my God…"

"Hey, it's all right." Sam could practically hear the shrug as Dean went on. "It's not the same as when she dumped Alex into my head – I'm still me. This time, she was trying to show me what happened to her…after he died."

When Sam looked again, Ginny's hand was gone, and Dean was lying exhaustedly against the back of the couch.

"I just wanted to help her. Whatever happened to her, she doesn't deserve that…weird limbo place she's stuck in. So, if I can figure out how to poke through all the stuff she…" he grimaced, made a gesture with one hand "downloaded into my head, we can find her and give her some peace. It's the only way to free her from the trap she's made for herself, and it's the only way to keep her from haunting your house."

"Sam? What do you think? Is that crazy?"

Sam made a face and tried not to snarl. "Doesn't matter what I think. He's gonna do it anyway. But," he added reluctantly, after a pause, "right now, we don't have anything else to go on. We can't find any records of her anywhere. If what Dean says is true, if he's got her memories stuck in his head, well, crap, what else have we got?"

"Wow, Sam, thanks for the vote of confidence."

"It's not like this woman has given me a lot of good reasons to trust her, Dean," Sam shot back.

"Let's stop arguing over it, all right?" Dean asked tiredly. "The memories are there. I just gotta dig out the right ones."

"Oh, God, Dean," Ginny said, appalled realization flooding her face. "Are you going to have to experience that poor woman's death?"

"Don't know. Never done this before." He gave her a crooked smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Might not have to go that far with it. See what happens, okay?"

It was Ginny's turn to throw a brief helpless look at Sam. "So how does this work? I mean it, Dean, you look awful. Are you in any condition to attempt something like this, whatever 'this' is?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Better to do it now, anyway, than waiting. Just…give me a few minutes."

His eyes closed again, and despite his usual and automatic assertion that he was "fine," Sam could see the telltale frown and the tight lines of pain around his mouth. He was also pale, except for dark smudges under his eyes, and perhaps a flush on his cheeks of what could be the beginning of a fever.

And that made him angry all over again. Angry at Dean for being so damn willing to hurt himself, to sacrifice himself, ever since Nebraska; angry at the spirit who hurt him, who tried to take him away, screwing with his head, _still_ hurting him, and now, evidently, having gotten her claws into his brother so deep that Dean was willing to risk even more to save her – and seeing as how she was long dead and buried, that _really_ pissed Sam off.

"Okay, sweetie, whatever you need to do," Ginny was saying. She patted Dean's hand, and shook her head at Sam, frowning herself. Sam nodded in silent agreement that, yes, his brother was crazy.

xxxxx

Dean could pick up on Sam's nervousness, irritation, and anger even with his eyes shut, maybe _especially_ with his eyes shut, but he did his best to ignore it. He really did feel terrible; his head felt like someone had stuck an ice pick in his eye socket and left it there, and while his ribs ached from Bridget's timely shove and the resulting fall, at least he didn't think he'd gained any new bruises.

And he didn't have any rock salt wounds oozing on his chest. Once was more than enough of that particular scenario, thank you very much.

He leaned back and supposed he might as well get this the hell over with. Taking a deep mental breath, as though about to dive into water, Dean brought the images forth. The churning, whirling chaos erupted, with occasional recognizable glimpses of Bridget, of Alex, of the Thornton house in its original setting, and a host of unknown faces. He had to swallow to keep the bile from rising in his throat, and sweat began to bead along his hairline. It hadn't been this bad before, had it? With Bridget? Or had she done something to ease the pain… A dim recollection of her hand soothing over his forehead came to him. Of course at the time, she'd also probably been making sure he didn't remember being Dean Winchester… But as he just kept breathing, slow and steady, gradually the sickness abated, and the memories seemed to settle down instead of flipping through his head like a slide show at warp speed.

He'd been working so hard at blocking Bridget's memories all this time, and now, with them let loose it was almost a relief. But he must've been quiet for too long, for he felt a light touch on his hand, and a tentative voice saying his name. _Ginny. _Another hand wrapped around his other wrist. _Sam. _

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, very quietly, "you all right in there?"

Not quite daring to open his eyes just yet, or even nodding, he managed to make enough of a noise that seemed to satisfy Sam. But he noticed Sam didn't let go…

_Shit, like I want an audience for this. Bad enough with Sam, but Ginny, too… Keep it together, Dean._

Now, how the hell to do this…

Sammy, the Psychic Wonder Boy, would no doubt be a whole lot smarter at figuring it out.

His initial thought was to plunge right in, and, in true Dean Winchester style, kick some figurative ass, and see what happened. But his hunter's instincts held him back. He waited, he considered what to focus on, where to start, and slowly, slowly, he sank lightly into the layers of memories, found a trail and tracked it with the same single-minded determination and skill he would've used on a hunt.

It was spring. She'd gotten a letter…

He plunged headlong into a deep well of grief and anguish. Disbelief. So much pain, and, for a time, despair and madness. Giving up. She didn't care. Nothing mattered. Alex was gone.

Somehow, still peripherally aware of Sam's firm grasp on his wrist, anchoring him, he turned his hand so he could get an equally tight hold on Sam. His other hand curled into a fist.

_Soldiers came to the empty house, wearing neither blue nor gray._

_Fire and death and terror. She hid, along with the others. But not safe, even then._

_Hunger and pain. Sorrow, always, never-ending._

_Days, weeks, months... Time blurred._

_The world was ashes. Nothing remained in it for her. Still she waited, and still he did not come._

_She wandered, lost and alone, and waited. She didn't care anymore what happened to her, if he was gone._

_She waited. She would wait forever…_

Light faded. No warmth, no feeling. He spiraled into darkness, falling, falling…

"Dean?" Faint, from far, far away. "Dean, open your eyes, come on."

The familiar voice tugged at his memory.

But the violent turmoil of emotions was nearly too much to bear. Dean didn't know where he ended and Bridget began, so closely was he enmeshed in her memories, in her pain. The voice persisted, though, and he fought his way toward it, grasping at it like a lifeline. The darkness shifted, receded, the light grew brighter.

Hearing a low keening moan, he realized the sound came from his own throat. His eyes flew open wide as he gasped for breath and pitched forward almost off the couch. He was aware of shaking all over, of the sweat trickling down the side of his face, and he thought for sure he was gonna puke on Sam. Sam, who caught him before he could land on his head, Sam's voice in his ear.

"Easy, easy, take it easy, okay?" Sam hadn't let go of Dean's wrist, and Dean's clenched fingers had probably left bruises on Sam. But Sam hung on, holding him up, and Sam's other hand pressed lightly on the nape of his neck. "Head between your knees."

"No," he said, faintly, struggling to stay upright. Sam sighed but helped prop him up anyway, taking some of Dean's weight against his shoulder. He shut his eyes tight against the room's sudden tilt. "Oh, crap."

A hand on his forehead, then – but it wasn't Bridget, not this time_ – _smoothing back his hair, cool against his heated skin.

Bridget. Dead. Long, long ago.

He bit his lower lip against the sob, against Bridget's grief for Alex, of his own for Bridget.

"Dean? Dean, honey, why don't you lie down, all right? You feel a little warm; I think you've got a bit of a temperature. Sam is going to get you some water, so you just lie down now, sweetie."

"'kay," he breathed. But… _Don't go. _Dean's cramped fingers refused to unwind from Sam's wrist. He belatedly realized he must have said the words out loud when he heard Sam again.

"Dean, it's all right. I'm not going anywhere, I promise." Sam's weight shifted the cushions, though, as Dean felt him stand up. "Dean, you hear? I'm not leaving. But I think Ginny's right. Lie down, okay? Here, I'll help you. Come on…"

Vaguely taking note that Sam was lifting his legs (one-handed) onto the couch, and that Ginny was coaxing him to lie flat, he surrendered to the fatigue and let them do what they wanted. Eventually, he edged his eyes open a crack to check on how badly the room might be tipping, and cautiously opened them all the way when it looked safe.

Sam sat on the couch at his hip, still hanging onto Dean – or Dean was still hanging onto Sam, depending on how you looked at it – and Ginny was gone.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, meeting his gaze, all big-eyed worry and little brother fear.

He could hardly think past the pain in his skull, in his heart. The grief was still too fresh. The memories mercifully drifted to the back of his mind; he let them go, but all he could see was a young woman weeping. Dying, all alone.

"Dean?" The fear upped a notch, and the grip Sam had on him, unbelievably, got just a little tighter. "Say something."

"Sam…" He forced himself to push away the pain, to lock away the grief. To take away that expression on Sam's face. He looked at their hands, and tried for smartass. "We dating now, or is this…the secret handshake?"

"Secret handshake. I wouldn't date you," Sam said, his comeback and smile both a little weak.

"Well, no accounting for taste." Dean winced as he finally peeled his fingers away from Sam's wrist, and Sam let go of his. "No blood this time, at least," he added, as they both tried shaking some circulation back.

"You gonna answer me? Are you all right?"

"I'm…okay, Sammy."

"Uh huh." Highly skeptical. "Did it work? Do you know where she is?"

He was saved from an immediate reply when Ginny returned with a tall glass of water and a big white bottle. She came over and peered down at him in relief.

"Think you added another five years there, Dean," she said as she sat down.

"You don't look it," he said, attempting a grin.

"Oh, you flatterer," she said, trying as well.

"I'm okay," he said. "Really."

"Like I'd believe that on a stack of Bibles." She leaned forward with the glass to hand it to him. "Here." She opened the bottle and shook out some pills. "Ibuprofen. Sit up and take these."

"You just got me flat on my back," he complained. "Make up your mind."

"No sass. Take your pills."

"Don't think they'll stay down," he admitted in all honesty, eyeing them in his hand.

"Try, okay?"

"Okay," he sighed.

"Then you're going to sleep."

"Oh, I am, am I?" he asked, chasing the pills with the water, half sitting up with Sam's help. "I can't tell you how damn sick I am of this couch," he added, grumbling, handing back the glass and shifting to lie down again.

"Too bad. Sam will stay right here and keep an eye on you."

"Yes, Ginny." They said it in unison and shared a smirk.

Ginny wore a rather meditative expression that conveyed the notion she was considering slapping the both of them upside the head. But Dean might have been imagining that.

Instead, she just pointed a severe finger at them. "You listen to me, both of you. I really hope that you got what you needed, Dean, because I mean it – you are not going back in that house. You hear me, young man? This is the last time." In a gentler tone, she went on. "Do you want to talk now, or later? This…didn't look easy for you, Dean. Maybe you should get some rest first, okay?"

"No, it's all right. Rather get it over with, you know?" Dropping his gaze to his hands, he tried to gather together and put into words the disjointed fragments of someone else's nightmare. His voice sounded distant and detached, even to himself, but it was the only way he could tell this. "Alex died in the spring," he began. "Sam said…it was 1864. She got a letter. She…didn't believe it, at first, and she went…a little bit crazy, for a while, mad with grief. By then, she was practically alone at the house, and the family didn't really care what happened to her, one way or the other." He kneaded his forehead with one hand, wishing the drugs would kick in. "I think the rest of the family had up and left for somewhere they thought would be safer, rather than stay on the plantation." Giving Ginny a brief questioning look, he asked, "Charleston was blockaded? Attacked? Lots of fighting around here, right?"

Ginny nodded. "Yes, the city was under siege by Union forces practically since the beginning of the war. It didn't fall until early in 1865."

"Yeah, okay. That makes sense. She doesn't really remember all that, sort of one big blur. Aside from a handful of slaves at the house, some field hands, maybe a couple of white overseers, the place was empty, and I think some of them even ran off, escaped or something…" Sam was almost bouncing with impatience, but Ginny just looked fascinated. He supposed for someone like her, Bridget's story was living history. Dean pulled his – Bridget's – scattered thoughts together and went on. "Soldiers came. Deserters, probably. No specific uniforms. They looted and stole, wound up killing one of the slaves, an old man named Jacob. He had tried to stop them from…hurting…her." He couldn't bring himself to say the ugly word, to express the absolute terror she had felt at their violence, their hands on her.

"God," murmured Ginny. "They didn't…"

"No, they…stopped, they didn't touch her again. But she was wishing they'd killed her. After a few days of eating all the food, they stole what they could, burned some crops, and left without hurting anyone else. That was…sometime in the fall. I think. Anyway, she…kept waiting, as long as she could, still believing he would come back. There was never a body, you see, the family never buried him. But after a while, she…just gave up. Starvation, exposure – hell, a broken heart, I don't know. I think it was less than a year after Alex. Her physical body…died, out there, but her spirit stayed in the house. Trapped." His throat grew tight. "That's all I got."

"Oh, Lord," said Ginny, softly. "That poor, poor girl."

"So," Sam asked uneasily, "did you just go through all of that for nothing? What about where she's buried?"

"I don't know, Sam," Dean said again, lifting his eyes to meet Sam's. "I don't know."

xxxxx

For as long as he could remember, Sam had found comfort in the sound of Dean's voice in the dark. Since Sam was as young as four or five, it was Dean telling him stories in the dark, in one grim and dingy motel room after another – or slightly less dark, reading him comic books under the covers with the aid of a flashlight – or just talking, whispering, cracking stupid jokes and taking away the fear from too many nightmares and keeping Sam safe when their father had left them alone again to go after the monster of the week.

As they got older, as Sam joined Dean and their father on hunts, it was always Dean's voice in the dark that Sam listened for, quiet and sure, explaining the plan, calming him, steadying him. And now, again, after Jessica's death and through all the pain and horror that followed, it was Dean's voice pulling him out of his nightmares and visions, grounding him in reality.

But he was finding very little comfort now, listening to his brother's voice, deep and rough with exhaustion, and too weak to be Dean, who used to read him _Where the Wild Things Are…_

Dean had indeed fallen asleep for a while in the living room, and Sam with him, as it turned out. When Sam woke again, he found Dean still sleeping, but tossing restlessly on the couch, frowning and mumbling. When his brother did wake up, the fever seemed to have climbed, leaving him weak and slightly disoriented. So Sam got him upstairs to their room, made a quick kitchen raid for something to eat (which Dean showed absolutely no interest in), and wound up putting his exhausted brother back to bed.

Dean was currently propped up against the headboard of his bed, and Sam could just make out the silhouette of his face in the thin, pale light that shone in from the street. It was sometime past midnight, and Sam had woken from his own uneasy sleep when he heard Dean stirring. He'd gotten up, checked on his brother, and found him awake, clear-headed, and suddenly wanting to talk.

Dean. Wanting to talk. Sam went cold inside.

"Think I got that short straw again, Sam. Or maybe it's the same one."

Sitting on his own bed, arms wrapped around his upraised knees, Sam stared at his brother, wondering if this was a new twist on an old nightmare, because this couldn't be happening.

"What are you saying, Dean?" he asked, afraid that he already knew the answer.

"Sammy," Dean sighed, slowly. "You said it yourself a while back, whenever the hell that was, so you know _exactly_ what I'm sayin' here. I can't stay awake for more than a few hours at a stretch, and I'm still always too damn tired when I _am_ awake." He shifted awkwardly, shoving away the blankets. Sam could see the sheen of sweat on his face even in the wan light. "Sam… I'm not getting any better. If we can't find Bridget, I got a feeling I'm gonna be joining her in her exclusive Twilight Zone accommodations real soon."

_("Just feels like time's running out." "I should've let it kill me. I was supposed to die anyway…")_

"No." Sam shook his head and fear twisted his gut as he recalled with a dreadful clarity those words Dean had spoken only days – an eternity – ago. He remembered his own conversation with Missouri, when he'd blurted out that he thought Bridget was killing Dean. But… "No, that's crazy," he insisted. "You said she let you go, she's not trying to keep you with her anymore. You said she wouldn't hurt you."

"It's…more than that." The words were spoken with obvious reluctance.

"What?" Sam demanded. Honestly, it was like pulling teeth. "What haven't you been telling me? Dammit, Dean…" Despair closed up his throat.

"When Bridget first saw me…she said she could see…" Dean actually gave a faint, wry laugh. "How did she so poetically put it? Oh, yeah. Something about 'already marked from Death's touch.' I mean, dude, you could hear the capital 'D' when she said it."

"But, you were healed," Sam whispered. Then he remembered. Layla. "Oh, shit. You mean from later…"

"Uh huh. I guess ol' man reaper left me a little reminder of our night together. And since Bridget's…the way she is, she could see it." He paused, his breath hitching slightly. "That sort of…opened the door, I guess, for her to…get inside my head…to take what she could…to make me weak. Since then, there's been some kind of freaky connection, and it's still going on. She's dead, after all, and I think all this time she's been…dragging me right along with her, over to – well, her side of things. Like what happened with the salt circle…and after."

"She's killing you." The words came out flat and hard. Sam felt sick, angry, and he suddenly needed to be closer. He uncurled his legs and got up. Dean obligingly moved to make room for Sam on the edge of Dean's bed. "Shit," Sam said softly, fist clenched in the blankets. "Shit, shit, _shit._ That bitch."

"It's okay, Sammy. It's not even her fault, really, it just sort of happened. I don't think she even knew it would."

"Like hell it's not her fault!" Sam stared at his brother. "You sound like one of those victims of Stockholm Syndrome or something."

"Yeah? And does that have anything at all to do with blonde Swedish stewardesses?" The smirk was faint, but it was there, and that made Sam angrier.

"No, you idiot, it's a psychological syndrome that develops when kidnap victims identify and empathize with their captors. How can you defend her? After all she's done to you? Jesus, Dean, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Aside from the obvious, you mean?"

"Shut up!" Sam yelled. "Just shut up and stop joking about this! You are not going to die, do you hear me? We'll find her, and we'll burn her. No dead girlfriend, no freaky Vulcan mind meld, and you'll get better."

"Sammy, I don't wanna die, either, but clicking your heels together and wishing isn't gonna do it."

"_I'm gonna die, and you can't stop it." _How many times would Sam hear those eight words in his nightmares? See Dean pale, bruised, and dying in that damn hospital bed, trying to keep up his façade of smartass carelessness just to protect Sam? _Shit, shit, shit. _

Dean's head rolled against the pillows, his growing weakness ever more obvious. "Clock's ticking, Sam. Couldn't get anything more out of those memories she left me. I tried. Even dreamed 'em all again. I saw – _I felt her die, Sam._ But it ended there. Maybe she couldn't go any further –"

"Or maybe I shot her full of rock salt before she could finish passing along all the memories she wanted to," Sam said hollowly.

"No, Sam, no. Not your fault." Dean shook his head. "I think she just couldn't do it. She was still too afraid to face what happened. I don't know where she is, I can only guess somewhere in the gardens…"

"And just why have you waited until now to tell me about this? What's that all about, Dean? Or were you planning on avoiding the issue altogether?"

Dean shrugged. "Wasn't really all that sure until now. Had a feeling, is all. Like an itch between the shoulder blades, you know? When something's hunting you. It's there, but you can't see what it is."

"Goddammit, Dean!" Sam yelled. "You should've told me. We're in this together, aren't we? Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you," he said, his shock at the question plain to see. "You've got my back, like I've got yours, always."

"Then trust me to figure this out. Don't you give up, you got that?" Sam said fiercely. "Since when do you ever give up? You aren't going anywhere. You hang on."

"Or you'll kick my ass to Kansas and back?" Dean smiled faintly.

"If that what it takes!"

"Sammy…"

And Sam heard so many layers of sadness, exasperated affection, and love in those two syllables that he very nearly began to weep.

Dean just looked at him, smiling and sad, and it was so open, so unlike Dean, that Sam could hardly meet his eyes.

"I had a whole extra month, Sam, that's worth something. You bought me that. The reaper…if there's a mark on me, something that makes spirits sit up and take notice and then wanna suck my brains out, hey, if it hadn't been Bridget latching onto me, it coulda been anything. Coulda been something a hell of a lot nastier. Maybe those poltergeists in Omaha even got a piece of me, who knows?"

"Shut up, just shut up." Sam would have hauled off and hit him if Dean wasn't already in such bad shape. Beat some sense into him.

"Sammy," he said softly after a long moment. "Remember some of those stories Pastor Jim used to tell us when we stayed with him?" He waited for Sam to nod, to look at him again. "There was one…it was about this guy, this merchant, who was in the market in Baghdad one day, and he turned around and was surprised to see Death looking back at him. Death looked pretty surprised, too. So the merchant, he's so scared, he gets on a horse and rides as fast as he can to this other town, Samara –" he grinned at the name – "thinking he'd be safe there. But he's not, 'cause he sees Death again, who says, 'I was surprised to see you in Baghdad yesterday. I knew we had an appointment in Samara today.'"

"No," Sam whispered, eyes burning. "No."

"Maybe I've just gotten to Samara, Sammy. That doctor gave me a month, at most. I've had that, and a little more. I should be dead. Maybe I am, and it's just taken me this long to realize it."

Sam leaned forward to seize Dean by the shoulders and stare into that pale, too calm face. "How can you say that? How can you give up? Don't you dare give up on me…" He couldn't help it, then. He leaned in and buried his face against Dean's shoulder the way he had when he was just a kid, and scared (of yet another new school and new bullies, of bad dreams and empty closets, of John's frequent absences), and Dean would make the fears go away and everything would be all right again with a hug, a bowl of Lucky Charms, and always just the right words. Scaring away the monsters wasn't quite that easy anymore, but when to his surprise Dean's arms came up around him, hugging him back with more strength than Sam would have expected, and one hand started rubbing Sam's shoulder, Sam felt ten years old right then. Safe, and knowing that Dean would make it all right.

"It'll be okay, Sammy," he whispered roughly.

"No, it won't," Sam said into Dean's shirt, the ten-year-old sadly gone. "Stop saying that like you're giving up. I am _not _letting you die."

Dean's hand stopped and settled on Sam's shoulder. "Sammy, there's one thing you gotta promise me, okay? I mean it."

Sam nodded, not lifting his head. "Anything."

"This is the last, and I mean _last _chick scene ever. No more for the rest of my life."

Now Sam did raise his head and looked at his brother in grim shock. "You _stupid_ bastard. Will you knock it off? Jesus Christ, Dean…"

When Dean started laughing, weakly, but still laughing, Sam thumped him in the chest, forgetting the bruises, and didn't feel all that sorry when Dean let out a yelp.

"You _jerk,"_ Sam said, sitting up and drawing away. "You pain in the ass _jerk." _

"Aw, c'mon, Sam…" He was still laughing and wincing, rubbing gingerly at his chest. Gradually he quieted down, and he met Sam's angry eyes. "Sammy… I'm not giving up. Just facing reality here."

"You're giving up," Sam said, still furious. "You're giving up out of guilt. Roy picked _you_ out of that whole crowd to heal. That was hardly your fault. Layla was not your fault. You've been walking on the edge ever since Nebraska, Dean, taking too many risks, getting hurt too many times. You think I hadn't figured that out? Getting yourself killed won't save Layla." He leaned in again, his voice and eyes intent on his brother. _"You can't save everyone, Dean." _

"I am not trying to get myself killed!" he protested. "And I know we…can't always be there to save everyone. I'm not trying to, Sam."

But Sam could tell that he'd hit a nerve – that his words had struck close to the bone. Good. Let the gloves come off. He was tired of dancing on eggshells with Dean over this.

"Yes, you are. You _always _try. And when you can't, you blame yourself. Well, guess what, Dean! You're only human! And you know what else?" Sam reached over to circle Dean's wrist with his long, strong fingers, his brother's skin hot and dry against his hand. "Listen to me. You can't save Bridget. Your dying will not save her any more than it would save Layla. Bridget's already dead, and she has been for a long time. We have to find her remains, and…deal with them, and that is _all_ we can do for her."

Dean looked away. "She's just so…lonely, Sam," he said, quiet. "Sad and all alone. If this is how it's gonna be, if I don't…get out of this, I…hell, there's worse things after you're dead, than spending an eternity in the Twilight Zone with a beautiful woman. Just staying with her, in her house, so she's not so afraid and alone anymore, how bad could that be?" Another laugh, but soft and bitter, directed at himself. "Crazy, huh? Almost kinda sorta falling for a dead chick. Not that I'm in love with her, really, I'm not. But I mean, hell, you said it, Sam, how do I know how much is me and my feelings, or Alex's? I don't know anymore…" His head rolled back again to meet Sam's eyes, and even in that dim light, Sam could see such an expression of sadness and despair on his brother's face that it made his heart ache. Dean, suddenly and shockingly vulnerable. And either he couldn't hide it, or he wasn't bothering to try.

"We'll find her in time," Sam said firmly, trying to keep his voice steady, still holding onto Dean. "We will. We're gonna save your ass, so you just hang on, all right?" He let go of Dean's arm and pulled the covers up. "Go to sleep. We'll all work on it tomorrow, okay? Get Ginny and the gang out there, digging holes."

"Yeah, okay, Sammy. Whatever." Dean gave him something of a smile, but no argument – and didn't _that _just shake Sam up. As Sam waited, Dean simply lay down, curled up and turned away on his side. Within minutes, Sam could tell he was asleep, and only then did he get up to go back to his own bed.

"_I'm gonna die, and you can't stop it." _

Like hell.

Sam rolled over, pillowed his head on his arms, watching Dean sleep, and stared long into the darkness.

TBC…


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Dean dreamed. Or maybe not…

He caught the scent of roses, felt the heat of a summer afternoon on his shoulders, saw a perfect blue sky all around, and when he turned, a slender, black-haired woman stood on the grass behind him.

"Bridget?"

She didn't speak, but took a step closer to him.

The warm breeze suddenly whipped cold, lashing at his face, and the sky became darkly ominous, storm clouds threatening. A crushing sense of sorrow nearly sent him reeling, and as he searched Bridget's face, he shivered at the haunted expression in those eyes.

"Bridget," he said. "What's wrong?"

Not answering him, she simply turned and started to walk away, and he caught up with her in two long strides. Or at least, he should have. She continued to float one or two paces ahead of him, never letting him reach her side. Until she stopped. He came up next to her, but she didn't acknowledge his presence, her attention directed on something else entirely. As Dean looked around him, he finally recognized that they stood on the once-extensive lawn of the Thornton family mansion, as it had appeared in Bridget's time. The elegant gardens, however, were stark and neglected, tangled and overgrown, or half-burned and ragged.

Following her gaze, he saw the gazebo, standing forlorn at one end of the garden, its railing splintered in places, the roof sagging. The latticework trellises held nothing but bare, twisted vines, and somehow he knew they had once been climbing roses. Something of her disquiet communicated itself to him; he felt distinctly uneasy here. Not…threatened. But something else, something sad and grieving, spoke to him, and with a sickening jolt, he knew.

"That's where you are, isn't it?" he stated softly. "Oh, Jesus…"

She turned to him then, her blue eyes near wild with an old, old pain, and the tears slowly tracked down her cheeks. As he watched, she began to fade into the grey sky, colorless, a wraith.

"I said goodbye to him there," she whispered at last, her voice a sigh on the wind. "I waited, after the letter. I waited all summer, into the fall, and when I truly realized he wasn't coming, I…"

"Bridget, oh god…" He put out a hand to her, but she was mist, thinning, growing fainter, and his hand passed through hers even as she reached out to meet him.

"Find me," she said, imploring, despite her evident fear. "Save yourself. Before it's too late. I never meant to hurt you… I'm sorry…" The last word faded into nothingness. And she was gone.

"Bridget!" he cried, even as the world around him faded as well.

He woke, shouting, her name on his lips. Sweating, breathing in deep gasps, he pushed himself up on shaking arms, utterly convinced that the bed was caught in a tornado.

"Dean?" The sleepy mumble emerged from a swath of blankets. "Hey, Dean, you all right?" With a bit of fumbling, the little bedside light came on to reveal a tousled and yawning Sam, who was already rolling out of bed.

"Hey," Dean managed, blinking. "Yeah."

"Uh huh." Sam sat beside him, one hand against Dean's forehead. "You're still warm."

"Cut it out," he rasped, batting the hand away.

"Bad dream?" Sam studied him.

Dean could tell he didn't like what he saw.

"Uhhhh… Something like that." Dream. Or not. Dean pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes, noticing that his headache was back, the one that felt like an ice pick was jammed in an eye socket, only now someone was wiggling it up and down. When he opened his eyes, the room had at least stopped imitating a fairground ride, and he met Sam's worried stare. "I know…where she is," he said softly, unable to hide the sadness. "She…showed me." He had to look away, then.

"For real? You're sure?" Sam asked, just as quietly, but with a note of rising hope and obvious relief.

Dean could only nod.

"Dean…" Sam sighed. "I'm…sorry. I know this is hard for you. But we gotta do it. She can't stay here any longer. She's not _meant_ to stay here. And I'm not gonna let her have you, so I'll do whatever it takes."

"I know, Sam. I know." He looked up again, to find Sam still worriedly watching him. "She's afraid, even now," he went on, seeing only her pale visage, hearing those last words again. "But she's doing it for me. 'Save yourself.' That's what she said, Sam."

Sam was quiet for a long moment, and Dean watched the flicker of changing emotions on his face. "Well," he said, at last, with a slight shrug, "maybe…I was wrong about her, in a way, if she's willing to help you now. _If _she's telling the truth. Not that I like her any better for it," he added, cutting Dean off before he could protest. "She's the one who put you in this position in the first place."

"Coulda been something a whole hell of a lot worse," Dean said again, wearily.

"Yeah, I guess." Sam stood up, hesitating. "How do you feel?" he asked. "Are you okay to do this?"

"Now?" Dean threw a glance at the window. "It's still dark." He squinted a little blearily at his watch. "It's, what, something like four a.m."

"You say that as if you've never dug up a grave in the middle of the night. C'mon." He offered Dean a hand. "Besides, four a.m. is practically morning."

"Maybe for you," Dean grumbled. But, he admitted, Sam had a point. Cemeteries, graveyards, tombs, crypts… Yeah, middle of the night. Just how their luck seemed to run. Either that, or their timing just really sucked.

Sam still had his hand out. Grasping it, Dean got to his feet, only to find his legs immediately folding beneath him to send him in the general direction of the floor. Even as he muttered a curse, he felt Sam snag him with an arm around his waist. The room didn't spin, it only swayed slightly, but apparently that was enough to make him drop his forehead into Sam's shoulder – and why the _hell _was his little brother so much taller? – and wait for the dizziness to subside.

"Maybe you should stay here," Sam said from above his head. "I can do this by myself, Dean."

"No," he ground out. "Gimme a minute."

"How about the gang, then? Ian's got plenty of muscle – he'd be good at digging. Or Lissa? Being the archeologist-in-training – bet she'd love it."

"Nah, Sammy, let's leave those guys out of it, okay? Just us." He straightened and pushed away. Or tried to. Sam still had a firm hold on him.

"How about I dig and you watch? Pretend you're in charge, you know, giving orders, bossing me around…"

"Pretend?" The dizziness, for the most part, had eased; the rest of it, well, it wasn't like he'd never felt worse and still had to suck it up and do the job. So what else was new. "Let go, I'm all right."

"Yeah, like Ginny said, I'd believe that on a stack of Bibles."

"Okay, Sam, yeah," Dean said, anger flaring suddenly. He backed away enough to give Sam a poke in the chest. "Dead man walkin' here. I feel like shit, all right? I hurt goddamn everywhere, my goddamn _hair _hurts, the ice pick stuck in my skull has grown to the size of a fucking railroad spike, and if I take one step I'm probably gonna turn my stomach inside out with the dry heaves 'cause I've eaten what, a piece of toast, in the last day and a half. And I swear, Sammy, if you drop me unconscious on one more goddamn couch, in whatever goddamn house we're in, I'm gonna kick your skinny college boy ass all the way back to fucking Stanford. Got that? Happy now? Is that what you wanted to hear?" The diatribe left him panting, and he was back to leaning against Sam.

After a shell-shocked pause, Sam began, "So, um…I guess you're all right, then, huh?"

Dean couldn't help it. First his mouth twitched, his shoulders shook, and then he started to laugh, the sound muffled against Sam's shirt. Startled, Sam joined in, and they clung to each other for a couple of hysterical, exhausted minutes until Dean was gasping.

"Hell, yeah, I'm just fine," he said, finally regaining his breath. He raised his head and carefully stepped away from Sam's hands to try standing on his own. When that worked, mostly, he took another step.

"Seriously, Dean," Sam said, one hand raised in Dean's direction, "stay here."

"Can't," he said, all hilarity vanished. "Gotta show you…where to dig."

"Draw me a map."

Dean shook his head. "Sorry, Sam. Gotta see this through, you know? I'm not leaving her now…not after everything that's happened."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, reluctantly, dropping his hand. "Can't say I'm surprised."

That decided, it was a mere matter of a few minutes to throw on some clothes, and since Dean hadn't (unfortunately) been kidding about the railroad spike, he located the bottle of ibuprofen and tossed down probably more than he should have. Sam hefted the ubiquitous duffel bag in one hand and herded Dean down the stairs in the dark with the other. They quietly made their way to the Impala, parked out front, and inspected the contents of the trunk under the feeble glow of a streetlight.

Dean was lightheaded and breathing hard by then. He leaned in to grab a shovel, and when he straightened, he realized he'd be in serious trouble just carrying the damn thing, much less start digging with it.

Sam reached out a hand and gave him a rather pointed look.

"In case you've forgotten, amidst all those other ailments, you've still got two cracked ribs. You aren't digging up anything. Hand over the shovel."

"I can at least carry it," he grumbled, refusing to admit defeat. He leaned heavily against the car as Sam scooped out a big flashlight and closed the trunk.

At that same instant, a brighter light spilled out of the front door for an instant, and a shadow fell across the sidewalk.

"God," Dean muttered to himself, catching a glimpse of the familiar petite figure in jeans and overly large sweatshirt before the door shut again. "Does that woman ever sleep?"

"And just what the hell are you boys up to now?" Ginny's voice was soft but not in the mood for nonsense.

"Uh, hi, Ginny," Sam said, awkwardly hanging onto both bag and flashlight, while at the same time struggling to wrest the shovel away from Dean.

"Uh, hi, Sam," she shot back, before nailing Dean with a sharp look. "Dean, what's going on? Why are you vertical? More to the point, why are you vertical – and I use the word loosely – at four-something in the morning with a shovel in your hands?"

At that point Sam got the shovel back because Dean found he needed both hands to help stay upright by balancing against the Impala. He shot a frustrated glare at Sam as his brother gave him an "I told you so" look in return. Dean ignored him and turned back to Ginny.

"Aw, come on, Ginny," he drawled, drawling only because it was hard to put the words together any faster. "You're usually quicker on the uptake than that."

The sharp look narrowed. "You know where she is."

He slanted his glance away from her. "Yeah, I do," he said, trying to mask the pain and weariness that simple admission evoked.

"And you're doing it in the dead of night…because?"

"'Cause Sam likes to do it in the dark," he deadpanned, jumping in before Sam could even open his mouth about the real reason.

He could practically hear the eyeroll, but at least Sam stayed quiet. Ginny gave a snort of laughter.

"You're welcome to join us," Dean said. "But just you. Don't go rousing the troops, okay?" At her doubtful expression, he added, quieter, "Please."

She nodded slowly. "All right. What can I do to help?"

Ginny actually wound up carrying two metal lanterns she went back to the house for, and then demanded a shovel of her own. Sam took both shovels and the flashlight. From the look on Sam's face, Dean could tell that Sam thought he should be carrying Dean instead, but Dean just growled at him and snatched the bag from Sam when Sam tried to say something about it. But Sam stayed close, and he felt Ginny's attention on him as well. He stumbled a bit, and hissed a curse at his own weakness.

The flashlight beam bobbled his way. "Dean?"

"I'm okay, Sam," he said. "Quit worryin'."

"Yeah," Sam muttered, "and maybe I should stop breathing while I'm at it."

"Heard that."

"Shut up."

"Boys."

Dean sighed. At least the damn house was only across the damn street.

"So, Dean…" Ginny sounded, for the first time since meeting her, oddly hesitant. "How, um, that is…"

They had passed through the wrought iron gate now, and were on the sidewalk. Dean led them off the pavement and onto the grass to head for the yard in the back of the house. Sam followed, a step behind, and Dean could feel Sam's stare at the back of his head.

"It's…hardly scientific," he finally answered her, reaching up with one hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

"Has _any _of this been scientific?"

"Well, now that you mention it…"

"It's okay, sweetie," she said. "You don't have to explain. I understand instincts and gut feelings. Sometimes you just have to ignore the science and go with the emotions."

He was spared from having to make a further reply when they drew closer to the gazebo. Set a bit behind the house within a neatly trimmed hedge and framed on four sides by trellises that would in the summer be flourishing with vines and flowers, it was both like and unlike the structure from Bridget's memory. It was no longer half in ruins, but Dean felt that same nauseating jolt hit him with an almost physical force when he saw it this time again in the real world.

He must've stopped, and there was Sam, with a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Dean, you okay?"

"Up ahead," he said hoarsely, blinking at the sweat that burned his eyes. At least he thought it was sweat. "She's…there." And he staggered forward, the bag dragging at his arm, suddenly too heavy.

_Oh, god, she's there. Right there, all this time, and no one knew. No one cared. She died and they put her in the ground with nothing to remember her by. The family canary would've gotten more. They just left her. They wiped her out of their lives as though she never existed, as though she meant nothing._

Though he had only seen her spirit gesture at the gazebo, saw her eyes focused with remembered dread upon it, he _knew_ where she lay. He could feel…something…tugging at his senses, those gut feelings Ginny referred to. With unerring instinct he led them through the gate set in the hedge and straight to a patch of ground on the south side of the little octagonal-shaped summerhouse. He sank to his knees in the dewy grass and pointed to a spot near the foundation, between two of the trellises that stretched to the roof, and traced out the dimensions.

"There."

"You're sure." Sam was looking at him much too closely. "You know, we barely found any sign of a presence out here, in any of these buildings."

"I know, Sam, but that's where she is."

"Well," Sam said quietly, not questioning him further. "Let's get this over with."

Sam took the bag, insisted on Dean getting up off the grass and sitting down on the gazebo steps, and then took off his jacket to toss it over Dean's shoulders, telling him to shut up when Dean started to object. Ginny and Sam set up the lights, and with another swift glance in his direction, started digging in the soft earth. Dean shivered with cold – or fever; by this time he hardly knew – and watched.

_Pull yourself together, Dean. It's just another job, right? Another job, another grave to dig up._

He'd always been good at lying, even to himself.

Sam and Ginny both worked quickly, with care, few words passing between them. He knew Sam was driven by a completely different motivation than Ginny, and he felt the glances Sam kept throwing his way even while digging. And Dean had to smile, just a bit, at seeing Ginny in action in the field.

All too soon, it seemed, Ginny's shovel scraped on something other than dirt, and she paused, sharing a look with Sam. Dean stood up, Sam's jacket slid off to lie unheeded on the ground, and he took a couple of steps closer. As he watched with growing trepidation, Ginny tossed the shovel up out of the hole and crouched down to gently sift through the dirt with her fingers. Sam stood by, leaning on his shovel, panting in the cool night air, and let her take over.

"Not very deep," Sam muttered, wiping off some sweat with his forearm.

"Got something," Ginny said. She continued to brush away clumps of clinging earth, moving it away from an ever-increasing area. "Feels like fabric."

"What can I do?"

"Move some of the dirt from here, Sam, okay?"

They worked together, intent and silent. Dean turned away, fighting a wave of vertigo, and he had to put a hand on the railing of the gazebo to steady his suddenly shaking legs.

"Dean?" Ginny called softly to him after several minutes. "We…have her."

He did not want to turn back and look. He did not want to see her…like that. But he forced his frozen muscles to respond, to move, and joined them to stand at the grave. His eyes skittered everywhere except on what was in front of him. He was dimly aware of Ginny taking his arm, of Sam beside him, and before he could change his mind, he looked into the hole they had dug. And saw Bridget.

It was nothing new. A small body, somewhat curled up, a few tatters of decayed cloth still clinging to the yellowed bones and dried scraps of flesh.

Dean spun away, staggered a few steps and fell to his knees, those dry heaves he'd mentioned earlier to Sam hitting him with a vengeance. With one arm braced on the ground and the other around his stomach, his body convulsed over and over, and tears squeezed out from under his eyelids to slide down his cheeks. There was nothing but bile burning in his throat; he coughed and spat and tried to breathe. A pair of arms had wrapped him up from behind, and he had expected Sam, but it was Ginny who held him tight around the shoulders, slightly rocking him. As the painful spasms finally ceased, he took several deep breaths, head hanging, and managed to somewhat sit up, with Ginny still holding on. Sam was there, too, he realized, squatting down next to him, with a hand on the back of Dean's neck.

"It's all right, it's all right," Ginny kept crooning.

He shook his head. "Jesus Christ, they dumped her in a hole," he said, his voice hoarse and raw. "They dumped her in a hole, covered her up, and never looked back. How could they _do _something like that to another human being? Those goddamned _bastards."_

"Dean, sweetie, I don't think so," Ginny said quietly into his ear. "I think she was buried with love, I really do. From what little I could see, she was wrapped in a blanket, and possibly some personal possessions were with her. It was a difficult time, Dean, it was war all around, chaos and death, and maybe whoever buried her just couldn't do any more than this for her."

He had a sudden flash of faces, of names. _Isaac, _he thought. _Abigail, and Penny. They took care of her, when no one else bothered. The slaves buried her. And kept the family away. _His breathing gradually evened out, his trembling limbs stilled. Ginny loosened her arms but didn't move.

"I'm okay," he said, not fooling anyone for a second.

But she patted him on the back, stood up, and said, "I know, sweetie."

Silent all this time, Sam now spoke up. "We need to finish this."

"I hate to think of all the laws we're breaking," Ginny sighed. "Finding a body on a site…" She added speculatively, "You boys have to do it this way all the time, don't you? Quick, down and dirty."

"Yeah, it's not like we ever have time to get a court order, Ginny," Sam said. "Right now, _Dean _doesn't have time for that."

Dean let the conversation all wash over him. Bridget was young, lively, and pretty, and she had a dimple in one cheek when she smiled, and her eyes were blue… How could that sad pile of bones be her? Oh, god. The girl who had laughed and lightly flirted with him was a hundred and forty years dead… He swallowed another sob.

"Dean?" Sam still had his hand on Dean's neck, and he gave Dean a light squeeze. "Dean."

"Yeah, Sammy, I heard. Can…can you do it?" he whispered. "Please. I…I just…"

"I got it, Dean, you stay put, okay? Hang in there, it's almost over."

He nodded, too exhausted to answer. Sam gave him another squeeze and got to his feet. Dean shut his eyes and let himself sag. He thought briefly about getting up, walking away, but he had no strength left.

Ginny and Sam conferred in quiet tones off to one side. Dean heard the soft scattering of salt as it rained down on the bones; he could smell the sharp scent of kerosene in the night air, and he waited for the whoosh of the fire as it burst into life to consume the remains. Suddenly Sam's voice rose in a panicked yell.

Dean opened his eyes to see Sam flinging himself down on the grass in front of him and grabbing his shoulders.

"Oh, shit, Dean!" he gasped, wide-eyed and pale as ivory in the lantern light. "What's gonna happen to you? That connection thing – if I burn her, I'll hurt you, won't I? Dammit!"

"Do it, Sammy," he said, reaching up to grasp one of Sam's hands. "Do it. Got no choice. If it…does hurt, well, at least it'll be fast, right?" He tried a grin. "Rather go fast."

Sam's face was pain, and disbelief, and denial. He shook his head. "I can't, oh god, I can't."

"Have to, Sammy."

"Boys? You…might want to take a look. Just over there." Ginny pointed back to the gazebo, her hand shaking with a fine tremor.

Dean craned his head, and saw her, a faint shimmer in the darkness, standing inside the summerhouse. A woman in white, he thought, with a sense of blurring déjà vu. A woman in a white summer dress, and she held a straw hat in one hand. Head tilted slightly, her gaze focused on Dean.

"Dean," said Sam softly, warningly.

"It's all right. Just make yourself useful and help me up, okay?"

Sam swore under his breath, but hauled Dean to his feet and helped him over to the steps.

"That's far enough, Sam," Dean said, when Sam showed no sign of letting go.

"Be careful," Sam told him, giving him an admonishing glare. He glared at Bridget, too, Dean noticed.

"Down, Sam."

The glare didn't diminish, but at least he backed off. Dean climbed the two steps up into the gazebo, and he hung onto the railing as his balance began to waver.

"Bridget?"

She was hardly there at all – he could plainly see the wall of the gazebo behind her – but he could still make out her features, and she was smiling at him, joyful, sad, or both, and she stretched out a hand to him.

"Bridget, what's wrong? Why are you here, outside?" He met her fingers with his own, felt the chill as his hand passed through hers. But she spoke, and he heard her voice, faint, but clear. In his head…

"You found me, Dean. I had to come…to thank you. You gave me the courage to do this, to come out here again." He saw her gaze shift over his shoulder, and then she looked at him again. "Tell Sam I'm sorry. He loves you so much, and I hurt you. I hope he can forgive me one day."

Dean blushed a bit at her words, and he hoped like hell Sam couldn't hear this. "You were very brave to leave the house," he said softly. "You…know what we have to do, right? To send you back?"

Her eyes flickered, her form faded, wavered a little. "I know," she whispered. "I know it will hurt you as well, because of what I've done to you, but I will bear it for you as long as I can. I hope…I hope it will be quick." She put a finger to his lips – not that the gesture was anything more than a cold feeling on his mouth. But it shut him up when he would've said something. "I will always love my Alex, more than life. But I will always have room in my heart for you as well, Dean Winchester, for what you have done for me. Do not grieve for me after I am gone; this is how it should be." Her fingers caressed his cheek. "Goodbye, my dear. Do what must be done, before it is too late for you."

"Bridget –"

"It's all right. I'm ready to go, Dean. Please."

He nodded, and not taking his eyes from her, called quietly to Sam. "Do it, Sam. No more arguing."

"Dammit, Dean," Sam muttered.

But Dean heard the scrape of a match, and as the flames rushed up out of the grave, he saw Bridget, the ghostly one, disappear beneath engulfing fire, and cried out in wordless horror at the sight, transfixed at the memory of another burning woman. But in the next breath his world exploded in searing agony, the flames licked at his body, and his screams of pain were abruptly cut off as darkness mercifully claimed him.

xxxxx

Sam thought his own heart had stopped after hearing Dean cry out. As soon as he had tossed the match he'd spun around, heard him scream, and then again, in terrible pain. Arms shielding his face, Dean appeared to be writhing in torment. The pale ghost, wreathed in fire, made Sam think wildly of nothing so much as a martyr at the stake, rapturously embracing her death, and in a another heartbeat she vanished, gone in a dazzling shower of light bursting skyward. Dean began a slow topple at the same instant.

With a loud shout and a couple of leaps worthy of a superhero, Sam swooped up the steps and reached Dean's side just as he fell. Sam's knees hit the floor with jarring, bone-bruising force, but he caught Dean in a sprawling heap, which was at least enough to keep him from cracking his head.

Adrenaline pumping, mind and body numb from just too damn much, at that point Sam tuned out everything else and simply sat there with Dean against his chest, across his legs. Breathing deep, he threaded one hand through Dean's hair, and thought, _It's over, it has to be over. Please let it be over, please be all right. _"Dean," he said, his voice cracking. And then Dean stirred and opened his eyes, glassy, dazed, but awake and whispering Sam's name before those eyes slid shut again. Sam then just held onto him as the fire burned, the smoke spiraling lazily up into the dark. Dean lay limply on Sam's legs, his head turned away from the blaze, his pale face shuttered and still.

But the sky grew lighter, and the fire died as the body was at last reduced to fragments of bone and ash. Sam got creakily to his feet, lifting Dean, and carefully held his brother against him. Ginny had come quietly to stand beside them, and somehow, they all managed to struggle wearily back to the house across the street. They left everything lay where it had fallen, simply too tired to deal with it, but Ginny carried a small box with her.

Aside from a very quiet "I'm okay, Sam," Dean didn't say a word. But Sam got him upstairs and bundled into bed without an argument, and that in itself was worrying. _He's just tired, _Sam kept telling himself fervently, wanting desperately to believe it. _He needs to rest, he needs time to take it all in. He'll be fine. _

xxxxx

The day proved to be long, tiring, and painful.

Sam did little but watch over Dean and fret and wait for his brother to wake up, but he was grateful when Ginny came up at one point much later to fill him in on what she and the others had been up to. She and Lissa had gone back and carefully retrieved what they could of Bridget's remains from the grave, cleaning up and putting the site back in order, like the professionals they were. Amazingly, Ginny had somehow managed to arrange a service in the cemetery that the Thorntons had populated for nearly two hundred years. He didn't know what kind of strings she pulled, maybe the Thornton name was enough, coupled with the power of Emma's lawyers, but she found a priest to give a brief memorial that very evening at the family mausoleum.

Dean woke in the late afternoon from a broken sleep, still quiet, but Sam was afraid that if he said the wrong thing, Dean would shatter into about a million pieces. Sam had to bite his lip every time the words _Are you all right? _wanted to emerge – Dean obviously wasn't, and he didn't want to see Dean use strength he didn't have in trying to lie to Sam about it. It would have to be enough just to be near and ready to catch Dean when he eventually and inevitably collapsed.

The service was short, basic, and without any frills. Ginny spoke a few words of what they had learned about Bridget, and the others simply paid their respects and then departed to leave Dean and Sam alone. A silent Dean had been holding a bouquet of roses that he'd insisted on buying, and he now gently placed them next to the urn where it rested on a plinth. He turned to Sam with the keys to the Impala in his hand. Sam couldn't make out his expression at all, and sunglasses hid Dean's eyes.

"Here. I'll call you later." With that, he jammed his hands in his pockets and walked away.

Sam jingled the keys and called, "Dean?"

Head bowed, his brother just kept walking.

xxxxx

Sam got a phone call and the name of a bar a little past midnight, still wide awake, of course, and either walking restlessly from room to room or staring blankly at the television screen. With a relieved sigh he hung up, grabbed his jacket and headed out to locate his brother.

A bit of tricky navigating later, Sam found him, surprisingly, in an out of the way smoky blues club, not what he would have expected, given Dean's usual taste in music. Dean was sitting slouched and forbidding in a dark corner, quietly and thoroughly drunk, a glass and a very diminished bottle of Jack Daniels his only companions.

"Come on, Dean," Sam said, leaning over, trying not to flinch at the naked pain on his brother's face. "Let's get you home, huh?"

He just nodded, and let Sam help him to his feet.

xxxxx

Dean dreamed. Or maybe not.

Under a sky grey with clouds and the threat of rain, he stood in a muddy field. Hearing a step behind him, he turned, the familiar clawing fear rising up in his throat at what he knew he would see. But it wasn't the tall, cadaverous form and pale, wrinkled features of the reaper that met his eyes. It was a small blonde woman who smiled serenely at him, and said, "Well, that's a miracle right there."

"Oh, god." He couldn't say more than that because his voice dried up and he stared at her, shock and pain warring in his heart. He swallowed, and said, "Layla?" very quietly; not quite believing it could be her.

"Hello, Dean."

"What…what's a miracle?" he asked.

Her head tilted to one side. "You're alive, silly. Enjoy it. Treasure it."

"But I shouldn't be!" he burst out. "I was dying, that night. I could've saved you. Layla, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I could've –"

She reached up and laid her fingers over his lips. "Shhh." Her hand moved to cup his cheek, her thumb stroking his skin. Looking into his eyes, the smile she gave him then was sweet and luminous, and she said, "Don't be sorry. It's not your fault. You can't save everyone, Dean. I know you tried. That's all anyone can do." She brought his head down so she could place a kiss on his temple, a loving warmth that drove out the cold from the reaper's remembered touch. Stepping back, she said, "Thank you, Dean. I'll never forget."

And she flickered, shifted, her features changed, and instead of Layla, the woman standing there had hair as black as a raven's wing, and she smiled at him with sparkling blue eyes that always made him think of the sky of Kansas summers from long, long ago. The muddy field was gone, replaced by the garden behind the Thornton house, and the day was bright and clear. The roses were in full bloom, everywhere.

She wore a stunning dress of yellow silk. An iconic image floated into his mind, glimpsed from some Saturday afternoon matinee, and Dean decided that Bridget O'Connor, wrapped in nothing but a sack, could kick Scarlet O'Hara's ass any day of the week. He was gawking, and knew it. He shut his mouth. The woman crossed her arms in front of her and tapped one delicate foot.

"Well, aren't you even going to say 'hello' then?"

"Ah," he said, fumbling, blushing. "Um. Sure. Hello, Bridget."

"Thought you'd gotten rid of me for good, did you, boyo?"

"No, Bridget, no –" He broke off and narrowed his eyes at her. "Quit teasing."

She laughed. "I'm sorry, truly I am, but you looked a little bit too serious, and I can't think why. It all worked out, didn't it?"

"Are you all right? I mean, the fire…"

"It's over," she said softly. "I am fine. I am sorry it hurt you, though."

"That's okay. It wasn't that bad."

"Lying is a sin, Dean Winchester," she said sternly. "Best you be careful."

"Ah, yes, ma'am." He grinned back at her.

"Oh, my Lord, you are hopeless, truly." Then she looked over her shoulder, and said as she turned, "I don't have much time in this place, Dean. But I had to thank you again – you did what no one else could do for me, and it seems that all I've done is hurt you. I'm sorry for that, and I wish I could take the pain away." She smiled, the dimple made an appearance, and she moved closer. "I don't think Alex will mind," she whispered, as she reached up to take his face between her hands and kiss him gently on the lips. Then she kissed him where Layla had, he felt a tingle, and when she drew back, she just said, "No more Death to mar your spirit, Dean Winchester, or your bright soul." She smiled wider as she drew back. "Goodbye, Dean. Remember me."

"Always," he whispered. "Goodbye, Bridget."

She turned and walked away, turned back again to wave, and as he saw her nearly disappear in the haze of a hot summer's day, a beautiful mirage, he caught sight of a tall familiar man in Confederate gray waiting for her. Taking his arm, she waved one more time, the man nodded gravely, and they were both gone as if they'd never been.

Everything faded then, though he could still smell sun-warmed roses. Something light and silky brushed across his eyelids, cheek, settled in his hair, and he batted at it absently as he would a mildly annoying insect. Then he felt as though a drift of feathers, of soft snow, cascaded around him, and when he opened his eyes in wonder, it was morning, and he lay in a bed bestrewn with fragrant red rose petals and sunlight.

xxxxx

Dean closed the trunk lid with barely a twinge in his ribs, and said, "Yo, Sam! All packed. Let's hit the road, dude."

Since Ginny and her crew had been able to get back inside the Thornton house once again, they had extended their project for another month. And since they continued to rent the house across the street, Ginny had deftly persuaded Dean and Sam to stay on until Dean had had a chance to heal. Sam had quickly agreed, because Dean had been pretty much unconscious at the time.

With the burning of Bridget's remains, the fatal link severed, the bruises had at last begun to fade, his ribs knitted, and he slowly regained his strength. Mostly by sleeping about fourteen hours a day, and then getting his appetite back, something that Lissa had promptly taken upon herself to encourage. Not to mention Angie and Ian and Sam all taking turns practically waiting on him hand and foot, cheerfully ignoring his growling and snarling until it was easier to simply give in and let them… Not to mention that Ginny had developed some sort of sixth sense and was always ready to pounce and lecture him when he was fidgety and wanted to bolt.

Outnumbered and outgunned. It wasn't his fault.

He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to not be tired all the time, or in constant pain. Or at peace with himself (as much as he ever was), for the first time in over a month. A sense of balance, of equilibrium, had been restored that he hadn't even fully realized he'd lost. And Sam had finally stopped hovering and looking at him sideways every time he sneezed or coughed or rubbed his forehead, so Dean figured things were pretty much back to normal. Well, normal for them.

Though he had started to get restless a couple of days ago, that familiar itch telling him it was time to move on, he had to admit, if only to himself, that he'd enjoyed the rarity of staying in one place long enough to heal up, rest up, and generally loaf around in comfort. With home cooking and clean sheets and clean rooms without the extra creepy crawly, multi-legged guests… Dean sighed. Maybe another day or two wouldn't hurt…

_Nah, time to go. Some demons out there need their asses kicked. Back to the family business. _

Having said his own brief goodbyes, getting and giving kisses to Angie and Lissa (nice), and sharing a hearty handshake with Ian, Dean leaned against the Impala and watched Sam say farewell.

Ginny gave Sam a hug, passed him off to Angie, and Dean straightened up as she made her way to him. She stopped and gave him a grin, eyes slightly misty.

"Hey there, handsome."

"Hey, darlin'. Wanna go for a ride?"

Dean grinned and opened his arms; she stepped in and hugged him, hard, not letting go. Her head fit quite nicely under his chin, and he decided that she might as well hang on as long as she wanted.

"Oh, you." Ginny drew back at last, sniffing, blinking away the tears. "It just won't be the same around here without you and Sam. I'd tell you to stay out of trouble, but what would be the point? I'll know you'll take care of each other, but you listen, now. If you ever need anything, I mean _anything, _you call me. And if you ever decide to get out of the spook business, well, I could always use a couple of trained research assistants. Listen to me, I'm babbling." She sniffed again. "And I'm crying. I hate to cry. I get all stuffy and my nose turns red."

"You look great, Ginny." He shuffled his feet, and slanted a glance at her. "Thanks for everything," he said quietly. "I know Bridget…wasn't what you were expecting, at all, but…weird as it sounds, I'm glad I got to know her, despite everything. Thanks for what you did for her. It…meant a lot."

"Oh, sweetie, it was the least I could do. But speaking of our dear girl, I have something for you." She turned and called out to Lissa, who was laughing with Sam. "Lissa! Bring the box, would you, dear?"

Lissa waved and disappeared briefly into the house, returning with a small, rather battered metal box. Ian and Angie drifted over, smiling, and Sam, obviously in the dark as much as Dean about this, came with them. Ginny took it from Lissa and held it out to Dean.

"Remember when I said Bridget had been buried with some personal possessions? Well, this is it. We decided we wanted you to have it."

Dean took it gingerly, almost afraid to touch it. It was rough under his fingers, a little rusty in a couple of spots, about the size of a paperback book, and maybe six inches deep. He turned it over and over, then looked up at Ginny. "Are you sure? Don't you have to give it to the museum?"

"Well, if they find out, there could be trouble, but I'm not going to tell them. Why don't you open it?"

With slightly trembling fingers, he undid the catch and flipped up the lid. To his surprise, what was inside was in near-perfect condition. He looked at Ginny again.

"The box itself, as well as everything inside, was wrapped in oilcloth. Kind of like a heavy canvas, but treated to be waterproof. Kept everything dry, believe it or not."

He drew out the top item, and turned it over. A photograph. Bridget seated, with Alex standing behind and slightly to one side of her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. Dean smiled, remembering the…dream he'd had. _Together again. Happily ever after. _He snorted to himself._ Jesus, Dean, when did you start reading chick lit romance novels…_

More photographs lay beneath, with bundles of letters and documents.

"This is where it all went, didn't it?" he said, meeting Ginny's gaze. "Her life. What they tried to take from her. She had it all along." His throat closed up, and he couldn't say anything more.

Ginny patted him on the arm. "She's yours to look after now. I think she'd want it that way."

He considered that, and then shook his head. "I think you should keep it, and write about her. Tell her story, so that people know who she is. Was. She deserves to not…be forgotten. Stick it to the Thorntons, Ginny, don't let 'em win, okay?" Dean presented her with the box.

She laughed, taking it back. "Well, since you put it so eloquently… All right. But I think you should at least keep a picture or two. To remember her by."

"As if I'd forget," he said, looking at the photograph he still held in his hand.

The memories she'd shared with him had faded dramatically in their intensity over the last two weeks, drifting further and further away from him; he would always remember herand what she'd gone through, but the emotions themselves had thankfully dissipated.

He'd walked back through the house, with Sam, a couple of days…after. EMF meter in hand, Sam had found no sign of her. The house felt oddly empty and cheerless to him, and he occasionally had that double vision in some of the rooms, seeing furniture that didn't exist, or curtains fluttering in a closed window. He left rather quickly then, and hadn't gone back.

"Just one more thing, and then we'll let you boys be on your way," Ginny was saying, dragging his thoughts back to the here and now. She drew a long white envelope from her jacket pocket and said, "Since you were our consultants on this project, I thought it only fair to pay you the usual university consulting fees." Putting the envelope in Sam's hand, she added, "And maybe a bonus, as well. You've more than earned it. Thank you, boys. It's been…interesting."

Dean had automatically begun to argue when the words "consulting fees" came out of her mouth, but she shut him up with a glare.

"Um, thanks," he said, instead.

"You're welcome. See? That wasn't so hard."

Sam grinned. "Thanks, Ginny." He kissed her cheek, and that led to more hugging in general, and Dean rolled his eyes and suffered it all quite manfully.

_Yeah, time to hit the road._

The End (at last!)

(And since I'm exhausted, bereft and oddly sad now that this is done, and I've never asked before...but hey, please help to cheer me up by hitting the review button – especially 'cause it didn't work most of yesterday... Which I didn't realize until later. In the meantime, my poor fragile ego was hiding under the desk and crying, "Everybody hates it! It sucks! I knew it!" But then I went and looked at some pictures of Dean all wet and I felt much better... lol! I highly recommend it.)


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